I 


o 


THE  YOUNGEST  WORLD 


'  'What  should  I  have  to  look  forward  to?"! 
"  "Life!  .  .  .  Are  you  a  prophet  that  you  can 
say  what  it  may  have  in  store  for  you?  Seek, 
and  you  will  find.  God  may  perhaps  have 
been  awaiting  you  there.'  " 

Dostoyevsky. 


THE 
YOUNGEST  WORLD 

A  Novel  of  the  Frontier 


BY 

ROBERT  DUNN 

Author  of 
"  The  Shameless  Diary  of  an  Explortr"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914 

BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
Published,  February,  1914 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  MARTHA 1 

II  THE  AWAKENING 17 

III  THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 28 

IV  RORY  o'  THE  HEAD 49 

V  BOB  SNOWDEN 64 

BOOK  II 

VI     SUICIDE  JONESY 97 

VII     THE  FIRST  SURRENDER 119 

VIII     THE  SECOND 149 

IX     FULFILMENT 171 

BOOK  III 

X  THE  DRY-FARMERS 182 

XI  NEWS   FROM   HOME 212 

XII  THE  CANVAS  HOUSE 238 

XIII  CLARA 259 

BOOK  IV 

XIV     DICK  TRUEBLOOD 295 

XV     SYDNEY 319 

XVI     BREAK-UP   AND   BEGINNING 353 

BOOK  V 

XVII     THE  WIFE 395 

XVIII     THE  HAPPY  VALLEY 423 

XIX     THE  BLUE  BITCH 441 

XX  ARTHUR        ,,,,,,,,..   477 


$513159 


THE  YOUNGEST  WORLD 


BOOK  ONE 


CHAPTER  I 
MARTHA 


THE  woman  stood  at  the  sink,  plunging  the  dishes  into 
the  soapy  water  with  an  air  of  resignation.  The  man 
sat  at  the  kitchen  table.  He  ate  moodily,  slanting 
his  black  eyelashes  toward  his  plate. 

It  was  a  Sunday  morning,  and  therefore  no  pickers 
would  be  working  in  the  strawberry  fields  which  sur- 
rounded the  lonely  house.  In  the  nomadic  life  that 
they  led,  Gabriel  Thain  and  his  wife  spent  most  of  their 
Sabbaths  thus:  Arlene  wrote  to  her  mother  down 
in  Sacramento,  mended  Gail's  working  clothes,  and 
then  brought  him  a  pillow  from  their  bed  when  he 
threw  himself  on  the  sofa  to  read  the  Seattle  news- 
papers. 

The  pickers  came  to  the  fields  by  rail  on  weekdays 
during  this  fortnight  in  May  when  the  berries  were 
ripe.  Thain  was  their  foreman,  the  ruler  of  the  fur- 
rows in  the  big  clearing  amid  the  ragged  Pacific  for- 
ests. The  job  was  as  temporary  as  all  his  work  had 
been  since  he  had  married  Arlene  —  ran  away  with  her 
from  the  State  university  in  Seattle  that  both  had  at- 
tended. He  had  served  as  a  time-keeper  for  the  Japa- 
nese labourers  at  the  Sequalmie  hydro-electric  plant, 

1 


2  THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

for  the  crew  excavating  the  new  Cascade  tunnel,  as 
overseer  for  an  oyster  company  up  the  Sound. 

Soon,  down  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  the  morning 
train  whistled. 

"  Late  again,"  said  Gail,  pushing  away  the  dishes 
before  him.  "  And  another  hour  before  that  station- 
master's  kid  gets  up  here  with  my  paper." 

"  You  expect  another  letter  like  that  one  came  last 
night  ?  "  asked  Arlene,  without  turning  from  her  suds. 
"  You  hardly  said  a  word  since  you  got  it,  and  didn't 
sleep  a  wink."  She  spoke  querulously,  yet  appeasingly, 
and  in  a  woman's  hinting  way. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  It  said  enough.  But  even 
it  won't  make  any  difference." 

Arlene  half  turned  toward  him,  then  checked  her- 
self. 

"  Shall  I  fix  the  sofa  for  you  to  lay  on  ?  "  she  asked, 
in  a  tone  of  self-effacement.  "  And  if  you  get  time, 
you  better  show  me  how  you  want  your  shirt-bands  let 
out." 

Gail  did  not  answer  her. 

"  I'm  not  asking  you  to  show  me  the  letter,"  she  went 
on  with  a  timid  deliberation.  "  But,  Gail,  it  was  from 
a  woman,  wasn't  it?  One  of  your  women?  And  the 
first  you've  got  from  any  of  them  in  all  the  years  that 
we've  been  married?  " 

He  rose  from  the  table  and  began  pacing  up  and 
down  the  kitchen. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  suddenly.  His  resolve  to  speak 
surprised  him.  "  And  so  you  won't  be  tempted  to  ask 
me,  I'll  tell  you  which  one  wrote  it.  It  was  from  Mar- 
tha Harlow.  The  last  I  saw  of  her,  she  was  working 
in  a  restaurant  on  Pike  Street  —  Minker's.  And  she 
was  the  only  one  of  them,  besides  you,  who  ever 


MARTHA  3 

counted."  His  voice  thickened.  "  But  I've  not  read 
all  she  had  to  say  yet.  I  couldn't." 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

The  word  carried  neither  surprise,  satisfaction,  nor 
chagrin.  It  seemed  charged  with  pity,  perhaps  some 
pity  for  herself.  She  wiped  her  hands  on  the  roller 
towel  and  stepped  to  the  table,  avoiding  her  husband's 
set  eyes.  She  took  his  empty  cup  and  plate,  and,  turn- 
ing back  to  the  sink,  dropped  them  into  the  steaming 
water  with  a  sigh. 

The  creaking  of  Gail's  shoes  began  to  measure  the 
silence. 

When  he  had  run  away  with  Arlene,  he  had  promised 
to  keep  himself  true  to  her,  provided  that  she  would 
never  ask  him  about  the  past.  And  up  to  this  moment 
husband  and  wife  had  both  kept  that  compact.  But 
now  the  vacant  look  in  the  eyes  of  each  showed  that 
fidelity  was  no  longer  paramount  to  either. 

Gail  stopped  walking  abruptly,  and  said: 

"  Her  writing  was  ten  days  old.  It  went  to  our  last 
address.  Martha  was  quite  sick.  I  ought  to  have 
gone  to  her.  But  likely  they're  well  now,  and  it's  no 
use." 

The  woman  started,  but  this  time  it  was  she  who  did 
not  reply. 

"Can't  you  be  jealous?"  he  asked,  taking  a  swift 
step  toward  her.  "  Haven't  you  any  of  a  wife's  feel- 
ings?" 

Arlene  faced  him  with  a  shudder.  "  Don't,  don't 
reproach  me,"  she  pleaded,  but  languidly.  "  Haven't 
I  tried  my  best?  And  I've  loved  you  as  much  as  it's 
been  in  my  nature  to." 

"  Forgive  me,"  Gail  muttered,  making  an  impatient 
gesture, 


4  THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

He  sat  down  on  the  horse-hair  sofa.  They  lapsed 
into  the  silence  which  for  the  past  two  years  had  ended 
their  many  desultory  talks  upon  the  subject  of  the 
fruitless  and  unhappy  life  they  led. 


Thain  was  an  indifferent  student  at  the  college  in 
Seattle,  but  he  had  been  its  star  athlete. 

Chemistry  most  appealed  to  his  mind,  which  was 
blunt  and  slow,  yet  searching ;  but  in  that  science  hardly 
more  than  its  axioms  held  him.  These  often  moved  him 
to  speculate  vaguely  upon  chemical  discoveries,  and 
their  power  to  strengthen  and  perpetuate  the  life  in 
which  he  moved.  But  just  as  he  could  never  grasp  the 
intricacies  by  which  the  elements  combined,  so  he  could 
not  have  expressed  any  of  his  visions  of  the  vast  prom- 
ises which  chemistry  made  to  him.  Then,  stirred  by 
impulses  of  service  toward  one's  fellow-men,  he  deter- 
mined to  become  a  doctor.  This  represented  Gail  in 
his  best  light,  when  at  the  age  of  twenty  he  encountered 
Arlene  in  the  class-room.  For  marrying  her,  his  dead 
father's  friends  withdrew  the  money  with  which  they 
had  been  paying  for  his  education.  He  was  cast  out 
into  the  darkness  of  half-knowledge  respecting  himself 
and  his  world,  among  the  floating  manual  labourers  of 
the  Northwest  —  a  somewhat  strong  being  in  whom  a 
curiosity  concerning  existence  was  just  at  the  verge  of 
dawning. 

Though  an  athlete  he  was  not  by  nature  an  ascetic. 
But  puritanism  not  having  crossed  the  Cascade  Moun- 
tains, Gail's  bent  for  the  streets  at  night  of  the  restless 
city  did  not  mar  him  in  his  classmates'  eyes.  However, 
his  stronger  passions  and  greater  physical  maturity 
divided  his  life  from  theirs.  Only  on  the  foot-ball  field 


MARTHA  5 

was  he  one  of  them.  He  knew  that  he  excelled  all  his 
fellows  in  vitality,  and  his  assurance  of  that  superiority 
made  him  approve  the  life  he  led.  Whatever  the  vigour 
of  his  body  decreed  seemed  right  and  sane  to  Gail,  but 
beyond  that  assumption  he  did  not  reason  about  the 
trend  of  any  of  his  instincts. 

Arlene  also  became  an  outsider  within  the  college. 
Her  father  was  a  real  estate  speculator,  and  had  ended 
a  meteoric  career  in  dishonour  and  suicide.  The  un- 
moral pity  of  the  West  rallied  Lena's  classmates  to  her 
in  an  excess  of  sympathy.  But  whether  in  bitterness 
dr  resignation,  or  from  a  curious  fatalism  in  her  soul, 
she  shunned  their  advances,  and  chose  to  eat  out  her 
heart  alone.  Her  mother,  stung  by  disgrace,  and 
forced  to  work  in  support  of  the  girl's  education,  went 
back  to  the  school  that  she  had  taught  in  California 
before  coming  to  Puget  Sound.  Thus  Lena  became  a 
fallow  soil  for  love,  and  the  last  of  Gabriel  Thain's  in- 
fatuations. 

At  that  time  she  was  full  of  feminine  ambitions.  She 
did  church  rescue  work  south  of  the  Yesler  Way.  She 
clung  more  strongly  than  Gail  to  the  notion  of  helping 
the  unfortunates  of  the  raw  city.  And  during  their 
courtship  he  had  to  beware  of  meeting  her  on  his  noc- 
turnal prowls.  Her  associates  in  the  mission  considered 
her  character  fine,  called  her  high-minded.  Yet  she 
was  curiously  pliant  —  a  birthright  of  the  older  com- 
munity to  the  south  where  she  had  been  raised,  and  right 
and  wrong,  the  shams  and  avidities  of  life  stood  out  in 
a  less  sharp  relief  than  in  the  younger  northern  city. 
Up  to  the  day  on  which  the  Army  chaplain  from  Fort 
Lawton  had  united  them,  Gail  had  wondered  why  she 
never  included  him  among  those  whom  she  sought  to 
uplift.  It  seemed  unwomanlike. 


6          THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

The  abeyance  of  Gail's  passion  after  their  first  year 
together  left  a  void  between  them.  And  he  seemed  to 
succeed  at  nothing.  He  had  little  ardour  for  steady 
work ;  he  lost  position  after  position.  In  the  beginning, 
the  fact  that  they  got  no  child  was  not  a  disappoint- 
ment to  him ;  but  with  the  passing  years,  as  they  went 
from  farm  to  workshop,  from  workshop  to  farm,  he  be- 
gan to  associate  this  failure  in  fatherhood  with  his  dis- 
content. He  had  no  clear  reason  for  doing  so;  the 
double  idea  was  always  a  mystery  to  Gail.  Yet  it  kept 
growing  stronger,  widening  the  gulf  between  him  and 
his  wife. 

Each  of  their  temporary  homes  —  the  shack  at  the 
lumber  camp  in  the  drizzle  of  Hood  Canal,  the  cabin 
under  the  snows  of  Mt.  Shuckshan  —  felt  emptier  and 
more  desolate  to  him  than  to  her,  woman  though  she 
was.  Gail  could  not  understand  this.  Lena  did  not 
openly  regret  their  childlessness;  but  she  failed  either 
to  condone  or  defend  her  lack  of  the  primal  instinct  of 
her  sex.  Although  Gail  recognised  that  physically  the 
fault  might  be  his  own,  Arlene's  indifference  to  mother- 
hood gradually  came  to  stir  his  resentment. 

m 

"  To  bury  the  matter  here  and  now,  Lena,  I'll  tell 
you  about  Martha.  How  I  met  her,  and  why  we  sepa- 
rated," began  Gail  at  last,  still  staring  at  the  floor. 
"  Give  me  all  the  blame.  I  don't  think  I  was  heartless, 
but  only  undecided,  weak.  You  knew  my  reputation 
before  we  married.  For  the  time  being  almost  any 
woman  could  turn  my  head.  As  to  that,  however  miser- 
able we've  been,  you've  changed  me." 

He  glanced  at  her  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  Over 
her  dishes  Arlene  nodded,  grave,  inert. 


MARTHA  7 

"  I  was  nineteen.  It  was  the  year  before  I  met  you, 
and  my  third  at  the  university,"  he  went  on,  "  when  I 
saw  Martha  aboard  the  old  stern-wheeler  Skagit,  on  the 
Eagles'  picnic  up  to  Port  Angeles  in  the  Straits.  She 
was  with  an  insurance  agent,  a  flabby  beast  I'd  known 
named  Negus,  who  later  was  jailed  for  shaving  pre- 
miums. Martha  had  applied  to  him  for  work  canvass- 
ing. You  could  tell  right  off  that  she  was  straight  and 
well  educated,  ashamed  and  frightened  of  the  man.  It 
was  before  the  Klondike  rush,  and  she  had  wandered 
west  from  Duluth  after  her  father  —  a  mine  superin- 
tendent in  the  iron  country  —  was  killed,  and  her 
mother  went  on  the  stage.  She  had  a  brother  and  a 
sister  somewhere  in  Idaho  that  she  wrote  to,  but  I 
never  saw  them.  And  Harlow  mightn't  have  been  her 
real  name,  though  I  never  knew  any  other."  He  paused. 
"  I  remember  the  moment  I  first  saw  her,  by  the  pilot- 
house door,  gazing  at  the  crest  of  Mt.  Baker.  Her 
look  was  an  appeal." 

Gail's  mind  filled  with  an  image  of  Martha  then,  so 
frail  and  dark  and  girlish,  her  black  hair  heaped  in  a 
half-circle  over  her  low,  smooth  forehead;  the  fragile 
nose  and  wide,  unclouded,  deep-set  eyes. 

"  I  spoke  to  her.  She  smiled,  answered,  and  that  set- 
tled me.  I  loved  her.  .  .  .  All  the  way  up  the  Sound 
we  sat  alone  behind  the  after  wheel.  Ashore  in  the 
picnic  grove,  Negus  quit  hovering  around.  Maybe  he 
was  sure  by  then  that  she'd  thrown  him  down,  or  knew 
I  wouldn't  stand  for  his  advances.  He  sulked  and 
glowered  at  us ;  got  drunk.  She  felt  then  that  she  was 
rid  of  him,  and  began  to  act  almost  like  she'd  lost  her 
head.  I  felt  I'd  been  protecting  her,  so  what  with  her 
taking  looks  —  not  handsome,  but  honest  and  dependent 
sort  of  —  I  guess  I  lost  my  head,  too.  Next,  as  we 


8  THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

were  starting  back  to  Seattle,  the  fog  rolled  in  from 
Cape  Flattery,  and  the  Skagit's  skipper  wouldn't  leave 
the  dock." 

Gail  coloured,  bowing  his  head.  Either  to  mark  her 
unconcern,  or  emphasise  her  scorn,  Arlene  jerked  up 
the  plug  in  the  sink,  and  as  the  bluish  water  trumpeted 
down  the  pipe,  Gail  spoke  with  a  set  jaw. 

"  You've  been  up  to  Angeles.  You  know  the  row 
of  lime-kilns  along  shore  above  the  town.  Well,  I 
shan't  forget  them  —  ever.  .  .  .  The  white  dust  like 
powdered  steel  in  your  throat,  and  all  night  long  the 
gleam  of  fire  through  chinks  in  those  giant  beehives 
made  of  clay.  ...  In  the  woods  just  beyond  them,  we 
found  a  lean-to,  all  piled  up  with  new  spruce  boughs.  .  . . 

"  We  got  back  to  town  the  next  afternoon.  I  went 
right  to  Pelcher.  You  remember,  who  was  putting  me 
through  the  college,  the  man  we  had  the  nerve,  or 
madness,  to  break  with  when  we  skipped  off  the  next 
June.  Perhaps  I  was  a  coward  then.  I  was  crazy  to 
make  good,  to  marry  that  girl  on  the  spot.  But  Pel- 
cher wouldn't  hear  of  it.  Said  for  any  student  to  be 
saddled  with  a  wife  would  ruin  his  future  as  a  doctor. 
When  I  threatened  to  elope  with  her,  he  swore  he'd  stop 
my  allowance,  and  had  been  wasting  money  on  me.  I 
pleaded  with  him,  and  he  promised  to  look  her  up.  One 
day  he  started  to  tell  me  she  wasn't  on  the  square. 
Well,  I'd  have  smashed  him.  .  .  . 

"  But  she  was  out  of  a  job,  and  I  couldn't  support 
her.  That  was  Pelcher's  opportunity,  and  because  I 
hesitated,  afraid  he'd  throw  me  over  —  it  was  then  I 
lost  her.  Martha  and  I  had  been  meeting  all  the  time 
in  down-town  joints,  but  I  don't  believe  Pelcher  ever 
saw  her  till  the  day  he  bought  her  off.  She  went  to 
Vancouver.  She  only  left  a  note  for  me  at  her  board- 


MARTHA  9 

ing-house,  saying  that  he  was  right,  and  it  was  useless 
for  me  to  find  her  —  how  she'd  done  wrong  to  start 
with  by  leaving  her  brother  and  sister,  and  would  be  a 
millstone  on  my  neck  if  we  married,  but  should  always 
love  me."  Gail's  voice  caught.  ..."  I  thought  I  got 
over  it,  and  forgot,  as  I  could  in  those  days.  .  .  . 

"  I  never  saw  her  again  till  three  years  later,  two 
after  I  hitched  to  you.  It  was  when  we  left  the  Sequal- 
mie  plant.  I  passed  her  about  eleven  one  night  on 
Second  Avenue.  Her  clothes  were  pitiful.  I  tried  to 
speak  to  her,  but  my  throat  gagged,  and  I  thanked  God 
she  didn't  see  me.  .  .  .  Then  only  four  months  ago,  be- 
fore we  got  that  last  job  at  Olympia,  I  went  into  Min- 
ker's.  She  was  biscuit-shooting  there.  It  broke  me  all 
up,  but  she  wouldn't  say  a  word  about  herself.  I  gave 
her  our  address,  and  told  her  to  write  me  if  she  ever 
needed  any  help.  .  .  ." 

Gail  could  not  have  continued,  even  were  there  more 
to  say.  For  his  first  vision  of  her  was  tempered  by 
that  latest  memory:  the  firm  lips  moist  and  crimson, 
drawn,  yet  turned  upward  with  their  old  look  of  un- 
quenchable cheer;  that  aspect,  despite  her  frailty,  of 
having  incredible  resources  of  strength;  the  stamp  of 
what  once,  perhaps  in  childhood,  had  been  beauty, 
showing  through  the  scars  of  her  degradations  with  an 
appalling  vividness. 

In  the  ensuing  silence,  Gail  turned  squarely  toward 
Arlene.  She  leaned  against  the  sink,  staring  into 
space.  In  her  blond  and  squarish,  immobile,  somewhat 
Scandinavian  features,  he  could  read  her  concentra- 
tion, as  to  Martha,  upon  those  problems  of  their  com- 
mon sex  apart  from  motherhood,  which  are  yet  exclu- 
sively the  woman's  realm,  and  in  the  looser  life  of  the 
coast  become  superlative  —  poverty,  the  ache  of  lone- 


10         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

liness,  of  tawdry  garments,  of  unremorseful  wanton- 
ness. 

"  She  oughtn't  have  let  herself  be  bribed,"  muttered 
Lena  in  a  while.  "  Never  was  made  for  the  game  in 
this  country." 

"  I  think  I  acted  honest  to  Martha,"  declared  Gail 
simply.  "  And  some  day  I'm  going  to  '  come  back,' 
and  do  her  the  square  thing." 

"  I  hope  you  will,  Gail.  You  were  that  sort  once." 
Her  tone  conceded,  even  if  against  her  experience,  a 
faith  in  the  innate  chivalry  that  she  had  once  believed 
he  had. 

"  Then  it's  sure  a  verdict,  coming  from  you,"  he  said, 
with  a  tinge  of  hardness,  lost  on  her. 

"  Still,  I  wish  you'd  sometimes  acted  to  me  with  the 
spirit  you  showed  for  her,"  she  added,  dispiritedly. 

Gail  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Then  give  me  the  chance,  Lena !  " 

He  heaved  his  shoulders,  pulled  himself  together. 
He  eyed  her  wistfully,  as  if  an  idea,  familiar  yet  for- 
gotten, were  swiftly  relighting  his  mind. 

iv 

"  Another  thing  has  been  on  my  mind  a  long  time, 
Lena,  and  I  must  tell  you  now."  For  the  first  time 
in  months,  Gail's  manner  was  deliberately  winning. 
"  Please  try  to  bear  it.  I  know  you  can." 

She  betrayed  her  curiosity  in  a  listless  murmur. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  go  away  and  leave  you  for  a 
time,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  faint  but  clear,  and  steeled  so 
that  he  spoke  without  a  tremor.  "  It'll  be  best  in  the 
end  for  both  of  us." 

Arlene  turned  galvanically  and  faced  him.  Gail  ran 
a  hand  through  his  bristling,  sandy  hair. 


MARTHA  11 

"  Gabriel !  "  she  breathed. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  the  reasons.  You've  always  been 
open-minded  and  shown  common-sense." 

"  The  letter  — "  she  began,  dully.     "  That  woman." 

"  No !  "  he  checked  her  with  a  toss  of  his  head.  "  Her 
writing  has  nothing  to  do  with  this.  That  was  just 
coincidence.  I  won't  have  you  doubt  me.  For  weeks 
I've  had  my  mind  set,  and  been  screwing  up  my  nerve 
to  tell  you  we  must  separate  —  for  a  year,  anyhow. 
So  hear  me  out." 

"  You'll  do  what  you  want.     You  always  have." 

Her  complacency  both  shamed  and  stimulated  him. 
He  had  expected  an  outburst,  opposition,  to  his  pro- 
posal. Her  resignation  raised  a  lump  in  Gail's  throat. 

"  I  owe  you  a  lot,  Lena,"  he  exclaimed.  "  At  any 
rate,  in  the  time  we've  been  together  you've  taught  me 
constancy." 

Arlene,  implacable,  turned  her  back  on  him  without 
speaking. 

"  I  ought  to  leave  you  for  your  own  sake,"  he  went 
on  rapidly.  "  I've  worn  the  brains  and  ambition  out 
of  you,  drudging  for  me  in  this  tramp's  life.  I've  got 
no  right  to  drag  you  down  any  farther.  I'm  always 
going  from  bad  to  worse.  No  foreman  will  give  me  a 
job  any  more.  Without  me,  you  would  have  risen  in 
the  world,  and  I  ought  to  give  you  a  show  before  it's 
too  late.  Think  of  the  ambitions  your  mother  had  for 
you,  all  crushed  out.  Your  folks  were  different  from 
mine  to  begin  with,  and  raised  to  better  things.  There 
was  my  father  from  the  East.  He  never  told  me  who 
my  mother  was,  so  sometimes  it  wasn't  hard  —  to  guess 
when  I  was  down  by  the  tidelands  — "  his  voice  sank, 
and*  a  flush  invaded  his  sharp  cheekbones. 

"  I  don't  see  much  difference  between  our  fathers," 


18         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

said  Arlene,  moved  by  his  selfcontempt.  "  What  odds 
is  there  between  forging  land  deeds  at  a  mahogany  desk 
in  the  Alaska  Building,  like  mine,  and  dealing  faro  on 
Occidental  Avenue,  like  yours?  And  as  for  ambitions 
— Oh,  yes,  I  had  them,  as  you  knew.  But  it  was  all 
mother's  idea  to  make  me  a  home  missionary.  I  might 
have  had  the  brains  and  faith  once,  but  never  the 
patience." 

"  But  doesn't  she  need  you  now,  and  wouldn't  you  be 
a  help  to  her?  "  faltered  Gail. 

"Don't  you  think  that  my  duty's  here  with  you?" 
she  asked,  but  without  conviction. 

"  What  have  we  got  to  live  and  give  ourselves  for  ?  " 
he  demanded.  "  Only  this  same  sort  of  living,  dragged 
on  and  on,  in  the  next  county,  in  Oregon,  in  Canada, 
until  the  end." 

Again  Gail  started  to  pace  up  and  down,  with  his 
muscular  awkwardness.  His  deep  chest,  the  lithe 
powerful  frame  under  the  leather  belt  of  his  worn 
trousers,  contrasted  oddly  with  the  slight  sag  of  one 
shoulder. 

"  I've  never  known  what's  been  wrong  with  me,"  he 
went  on.  "  I've  never  understood  what  most  people  in 
this  country  live  and  work  for.  The  motives  that  run 
men  here  always  seemed  queer  and  foolish.  They  scour 
these  mountains  for  coal  and  gold.  They  sit  on  their 
claims  in  rags  and  without  a  cent,  living  in  a  dream  — 
that  comes  true  once  in  a  thousand  times  —  of  the  day 
when  capital  will  come  along  and  hand  them  millions. 
Yet  they're  so  dead  sure.  And  if  one  does  strike  it 
rich,  the  next  week  he  throws  away  every  dollar  into 
some  wildcat  timber  deal.  But  he  thinks  he's  a  hero 
and  a  martyr  for  trying  to  '  open  up  the  country.'  For 
whom,  and  why?  If  he's  got  any  kids  the  stake  is  lost 


MARTHA  13 

by  the  time  it  could  give  them  a  living,  and  they  have 
to  take  up  the  same  sort  of  useless  life,  or  hang  on  like 
us.  Men  with  such  hunches  belong  to  some  world  I 
can't  conceive.  Maybe  I  was  born  too  soon,  or  too  late, 
or  too  far  east,  for  this  country.  I  know  I'm  a  gam- 
bler's son,  but  I  haven't  got  a  drop  of  the  gambler's 
blood.  A  throw-back,  likely.  But  to  what?  And  look 
at  the  rich  men  in  Seattle  and  their  wives  and  children, 
if  they  have  any.  Drunkards,  or  worse." 

"  You  believe  all  you  read  in  the  Sunday  papers?  " 
put  in  Lena. 

"  And  yet  this  is  the  youngest  world,  isn't  it  ?  "  per- 
sisted Gail.  "  The  last  part  of  the  earth  to  be  settled 
up?  It's  all  a  mystery  to  me  —  all  so  complicated. 
But  I've  got  to  learn  about  it.  I  tried  with  you,  and 
failed,  so  let  me  go  it  by  myself  a  while." 

"  You  didn't  used  to  talk  stuff  like  this,"  said  Arlene 
after  a  pause.  "  You  were  stronger,  manlier,  once. 
You  used  to  throw  off  a  sort  of  power  made  people  do 
anything  you  chose." 

"  And  you  used  to  be  — "  he  raised  a  hand,  "  a  kind 
of  inspiration.  So  keen  and  vigorous,  and  right  in 
everything  you  said." 

"  I  know.  I've  lost  my  spirit,  and  maybe  it  was  you 
that  killed  it.  But  it's  more  unnatural  for  a  man  to 
have  softened  in  five  years  of  work  like  ours  than  for  a 
woman." 

"  Lena,  I  guess  we're  both  too  honest  with  ourselves 
ever  to  have  succeeded." 

For  a  moment  Gail  stared  blankly  through  the  win- 
dow beside  the  sink,  thinking. 

"  Yes,  something's  weakened  me.  There  must  have 
been  some  kind  of  nourishment  I  needed  and  didn't  get," 
he  suggested,  A  restless  light  filled  his  eyes.  "  I  have 


14         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

kind  of  wasted.  But  you  take  one  of  these  big  Douglas 
firs  and  plant  it  east  of  the  mountains.  No  other  trees 
spring  up  around  it,  so  it  dies.  That's  like  me. 
There's  nothing  of  us  two  to  keep  on  living  afterwards." 

"  Leave  me !  Do  what  you  please,"  said  the  woman, 
dreading  that  he  was  about  to  touch  upon  the  raw  theme 
of  their  barrenness. 

Gail  stopped  at  her  side.  He  seized  her  spasmodi- 
cally in  his  arms,  and  crushing  her  yellow  head  against 
his  bosom,  let  her  go  again  like  lightning. 

"Don't!"  she  repulsed  him.  "You're  thinking  of 
her  —  of  your  Martha." 

"  No,  no.  Of  you,  not  of  them*"  he  rasped, 
through  the  lump  rising  in  his  throat.  "  They  don't 
mean  anything  to  me  now.  How  could  they?  " 

"They  —  them — ?"  gaped  Lena,  her  blue  eyes 
flashing.  "  So  there's  a  pair  of  them.  I  thought  so. 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  And  one's  —  her  child !  " 

"  Why  —  yes  — "  admitted  Gail,  bewildered,  reaching 
into  his  juniper.  He  opened  the  letter  of  the  night  be- 
fore. "  '  We,'  she  says.  Two  of  them.  I  didn't  finish 
this,  or  realise.  I  was  too  dazed  to  think.  Then  prob- 
ably—" 

His  dark,  angular  features  had  lighted  wondrously, 
with  a  virile  glow  which  Lena  had  not  seen  in  them  for 
years.  His  upper  lip  crinkled  upward,  doubling,  as  it 
always  did  when  he  smiled.  "  Maybe  there  is  another," 
he  admitted,  awedly,  thrusting  back  the  letter.  "  And 
—  we're  saved.  .  .  ! " 

"  Her  child  —  yours —  you  knew  it  all  along,"  she 
burst  out.  "  You  were  only  throwing  dust  in  my  eyes 
with  all  that  talk  about  my  better  future.  You  wanted 
to  leave  me  for  your  kid." 

"  I  tell  you  I  never  thought  of  that,"  declared  Gail, 


MARTHA  15 

taking  her  firmly  by  the  wrists.  "  I  promise  you  I 
won't  go  back  to  her.  It's  too  late,  anyway.  And  you 
must  take  my  word  for  this,  too.  I've  never'  broken  it 
to  you,  have  I?  " 

"  Never.  But  the  kid  was  all  the  reason,"  she 
charged  obstinately. 

"  What  sort  of  a  creature  are  you  ?  "  he  breathed, 
tossing  her  hands  aside.  "  After  our  five  years  to- 
gether, you  let  me  go  without  a  word.  You  can't  be, 
jealous  of  the  woman,  yet  you  can  of  the  child,  my 
child."  He  sank  back  on  the  sofa.  "  In  some  ways 
you've  grown  bitter  —  cold  in  your  soul.  Ah,  Lena, 
Lena,  how  I  pity  you.  It's  you  who  pay,  who  suffer  in 
the  end." 

Arlene,  unrelenting,  turned  back  to  the  sink,  and  be- 
gan wiping  her  pile  of  dishes. 

"  You're  not  going  to-day?  "  she  asked. 

"  No.  Oh,  no,"  murmured  Gail.  "  I'll  have  to  settle 
with  the  fruit  people.  But  the  way  looks  clearer  — " 

He  glanced  up  at  her,  and  never  before  had  her 
fecund  aspect  appeared  so  deceptive:  her  plump  bust 
and  arms,  the  blue,  bird-like  eyes,  under  masses  of  hemp- 
like  hair,  her  full  cheeks,  still  unmarred  by  lines  of  suf- 
fering, and  retaining  the  fleshy  bloom  of  the  damp 
Pacific  air.  He  watched  the  cleft  in  her  sharp  chin,  the 
key  to  her  malleable  nature,  deepen. 

Then,  closing  his  eyes,  Gail  ran  a  hand  through  the 
coarse,  mouse-colored  hair  that  grew  low  about  his  broad 
temples.  It  had  a  glossy,  concave  uprightness,  like  the 
inside  of  sea  shells.  He  wrinkled  his  forehead,  elevated 
the  outer  edges  of  his  eyebrows  in  a  way  peculiar  to 
him.  Heavy  and  black  by  contrast  with  his  hair,  they 
ended  abruptly  at  his  nose.  Raised  thus,  and  with  his 
high  cheek-bones  which  always  seemed  tipped  with  sun- 


16        THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

burn  as  if  by  some  shiny  pigment,  they  gave  him  a  sav- 
age, Indian-like  look.  His  dark,  dominant  eyes  were 
lit  with  an  infectious  radiance  that  had  never  before 
transformed  them  so.  His  long  upper  lip  still  doubled 
itself  with  a  faint,  amazed  smile,  which  was  without  any 
stain  of  the  discontent  that  usually  marred  his  features. 
The  slight  pucker  around  his  nostrils  twitched  and  quiv- 
ered involuntarily. 

Arlene,  who  had  so  weakly  consented  that  the  bond 
of  a  lifetime  be  broken,  who  had  so  endured  her  hus- 
band's love  for  another  woman,  had  stiffened  into  a 
being  morose  and  brooding  at  the  hint  of  his  nameless 
child.  And  this  had  inspired  and  uplifted  Gail,  to  whose 
sullen  will  all  life  had  become  so  blasted,  into  a  man  who 
could  pity  and  could  hope.  They  had  each  stepped 
into  a  new  world  at  this  knowledge  of  a  generation  not 
their  own. 

A  shadow  passed  the  window,  and  footsteps  sounded 
on  the  porch  outside.  The  door  rattled  open,  and  the 
Sunday  paper  thumped  into  the  middle  of  the  kitchen 
floor.  The  ruddy  face  of  Tod  Benson,  the  station- 
master's  boy,  peered  over  the  latch. 

"  Hey,  you,  Gail  Fain,"  he  guyed  through  his  hare 
lip.  "You  outer  bed  yet?  " — and  was  gone  again. 

Gail  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets,  and 
stepping  to  the  window,  watched  him  pass  down  the  trail, 
trying  vainly  to  whistle,  across  the  great  checkerboard 
of  the  strawberry  beds. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  AWAKENING 

I 

HARDLY  had  Gall  turned  from  the  window,  when  it  was 
darkened  by  another  shadow  which  moved  more  swiftly. 
For  an  instant  the  idea  filled  him  that  Martha  herself, 
now  as  a  wanderer  in  the  lonely  places  alike  of  city  and 
wilderness,  might  have  desperately  traced  him.  But 
sight  of  the  large  figure  that  swayed  up  the  trail  dis- 
pelled such  a  misgiving.  He  recognised  the  tight  mauve 
coat,  the  flashing  rings,  the  coal-scuttle  hat.  It  was 
Madge  Arnold,  Lena's  sole  friend  of  her  own  sex,  the 
one  woman  from  whom  she  had  accepted  compassion  after 
her  parents'  tragedy,  who  alone  had  stuck  to  Lena  in  her 
vagrant  life  with  Gail;  yet  whom  he  disliked  for  her 
perverse  cast  of  mind  and  dominating  personality. 

Although  she  had  not  visited  them  for  months,  Madge 
had  the  habit  on  Sundays  of  taking  the  train  to  wherever 
Gail  might  be  working,  and  gossiping  with  his  wife.  The 
two  women  had  been  chums  at  high  school ;  later  Madge 
had  married  a  young  labour  contractor,  Wilbur  Arnold, 
who  had  since  made  a  fortune  speculating  in  Alaska 
salmon  canneries.  In  her  company  there  leaped  out  in 
Arlene  all  the  darker  qualities  (perhaps  the  dower  of 
her  father's  blood)  which  she  had  learned  to  stifle  in  the 
face  of  Gail's  blind  ideality.  Her  resigned  steadfastness 
and  dogged  loyalty  to  him  dissolved  in  the  presence  of 
this  big,  harsh-voiced  woman,  ever  at  war  with  a  grow- 
ing fleshiness. 

17 


18        THE  iYOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  It's  her.  That  side-partner  of  yours.  I've  been 
hoping  she'd  forgotten  us,"  said  Gail,  as  a  knock 
sounded  on  the  door.  "  I'm  going  in  here  to-day." 

He  stepped  into  the  bunkroom,  leaving  the  newspapers 
scattered  on  the  floor.  He  slammed  to  the  door,  and 
threw  himself  upon  the  grey  blankets  of  the  bed.  Usu- 
ally Madge  drove  him  to  scour  the  surrounding  country 
alone;  but  after  his  show-down  with  Lena,  Gail  shrank 
from  leaving  them  alone.  At  least,  knowing  that  he  was 
behind  the  thin  board  partition  they  should  curb  their 
tongues. 

He  had  a  son.  At  once  he  eagerly  took  from  his 
pocket  the  letter  of  which  he  had  read  so  little  and  com- 
prehended less.  He  propped  his  head  upon  an  arm, 
hearing  the  brisk  voices  of  the  women's  greeting.  And 
now  the  very  knowledge  that  the  phrases,  which  last 
night  had  ran  blurred  in  his  eyes,  were  ten  days  old, 
made  them  doubly  vivid,  emergent  in  their  call: 

"  May  2d.  Friend  Gabriel,"  it  began  (there  was  no 
address).  "As  you  told  me  when  I  saw  you  at 
Minker's  to  write  if  I  was  in  real  trouble,  I  take  this 
opportunity  to  do  so.  I  have  lost  my  job  there  owing 
to  sickness,  and  we  are  still  both  very  bad  with  white 
sore  throats.  Really  I  must  be  out  of  my  senses,  but 
the  lodging  people  are  very  kind,  though  their  patience 
won't  last  forever.  I  don't  want  to  ask  for  money,  but 
only  for  a  kind  of  help,  and  that  you  come  to  see  me 
before  we  have  to  go  away.  Since  you  have  a  wife,  I 
know  I  have  no  business  to  ask  this,  and  it  must  be 
hard  for  her  when  you  tell.  But  you  said  last  Novem- 
ber that  she  was  kind  and  liberal,  so  please  come." 

He  had  stopped  here  before.  He  cursed  the  chatter 
through  the  wall,  but  it  seemed  to  dim  as  he  went  on  — 


THE   AWAKENING  19 

"  I  was  going  to  send  you  his  tintype,  but  I  lost  it. 
If  you  should  take  to  him,  then  blame  me  for  not  telling 
you  that  time  in  Minker's  how  I  had  him.  I  couldn't. 
He'll  be  six  next  month,  but  rather  thin  and  pinched  for 
his  age.  Of  course  I  think  he  looks  like  his  dad,  and 
I've  named  him  for  you,  though  he  can't  be  bap- 
tised. .  .  . 

"  But  what  I  wanted  to  say  was,  maybe  this  is  your 
only  way  to  see  him.  I've  had  an  offer  of  work  down 
in  Oregon,  though  it  doesn't  begin  till  the  fall.  And 
it's  going  to  be  hard  work,  at  a  mangle  in  the  Eureka 
Laundry,  but  I  think  I  ought  to  take  it  for  his  sake. 
I  may  not  be  able  to  earn  enough  money  for  us  both 
there,  so  I  thought  perhaps  if  you  hadn't  too  many 
children,  and  your  wife  was  accommodating,  you  might 
care  for  him  till  I  was  on  my  feet.  Lots  of  people  have 
been  good  to  me,  but  none  like  you,  none  I  allowed  to 
be.  The  hop  season  will  be  here  soon,  and  I  can  earn 
enough  picking  until  we  go,  if  you'll  only  take  him!  I 
could  pay  you  for  his  keep  after  a  time,  though  it  may 
take  a  year  or  two  until  I  save  something.  I  know  it's 
an  unheard-of  thing  to  ask,  and  I  have  no  hold  on  you 
because  of  him.  .  .  . 

"  But  if  you  don't  take  him,  and  I  can't  support  us, 
it's  all  up. 

"  Your  Martha." 

Gail  gulped.  A  blot  had  splashed  on  the  paper; 
from  her  eyes.  His  own  filled.  He  drove  back  the  hot 
tears.  He  pressed  the  letter  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it 
fiercely. 

Martha  —  still  pure  and  true  to  him.  Martha  — 
once  so  trustful  and  loving,  ever  so  much  a  part  of  him. 
He  believed  that  he  had  not  thought  of  her  for  years. 


20         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

But  always  she  had  haunted  his  mind.     What  fate  had 
separated  them  from  a  happy  life! 

What  mattered  now  his  threat,  even  his  promises,  to 
Lena ! 

n 

The  strident  tones  of  Arlene  and  Madge  broke  in. 
Through  the  welter  of  pain  and  dawning  courage  into 
which  his  mind  lapsed,  he  finally  heard  what  they  were 
saying.  He  did  not  want  to  listen,  but  he  could  hardly 
help  it. 

"  I  put  it  up  to  my  Wilbur  before  he  sailed  North 
this  year,'*  came  Madge's  Seattle  twang.  "  I  says  that 
if  he  was  going  to  spend  so  much  time  in  that  godfor- 
saken Alaska,  he  needn't  exact  promises  of  behaviour 
from  me  that  I  couldn't  get  from  him.  But  he  argued 
that  there  wasn't  white  women  of  any  sort  where  he 
goes.  '  But  squaws,'  I  says.  '  What's  the  matter  with 
them?  '  You  know  that  Siwash  story." 

Their  voices  fell.  Gail  heard  Lena's  laugh,  and  its 
vacancy  set  his  teeth  on  edge.  The  acute  and  empty 
Madge  always  turned  her  head,  carried  her  away,  left 
her  more  obstinate,  nagging,  difficult  to  get  along  with. 

"Did  Wilbur  give  you  his  word?"  asked  Lena. 

"He  certainly  has,"  affirmed  the  other.  "Wilbur 
was  always  reasonable  —  in  his  talk.  But  you  know 
me  well  enough  to  understand  I  haven't  any  particular 
temptations  with  men.  Still,  you  ought  to  make  a  hus- 
band think  you  have.  It  holds  him,  and  I've  got  to  be 
sure  of  Wilbur  till  we  put  our  new  salmon  deal  through." 

"  Is  that  the  only  big  job  you  have  on?  "  questioned 
Lena,  admiringly.  Gail  abhorred  her  envy  of  Madge's 
wealth,  of  the  woman's  scathing,  superficial  cleverness. 

"  Except  the  Atna  River  townsite  up  there.  Lamar 
and  his  crowd  are  having  trouble  with  a  gang  of  farmers 


THE    AWAKENING  21 

from  Idaho,  downright  fool  claim- jumpers.  But  we've 
got  the  Government  and  the  Copper  Trust  both  back  of 
us,  which  means  the  courts  and  the  marshals  in  Alaska. 
Wilbur  says  that  Hartline  crowd  will  be  thrown  out  by 
the  scruffs  of  their  fly-bitten  necks  this  very  summer. 
Still,  he's  only  got  a  small  interest  there,  and  mayn't 
have  to  mush  over  Torlina  way.  Charles  Lamar's  the 
smartest  man  up  North." 

In  the  pause,  Gail  pictured  the  woman's  patronising 
air,  and  Arlene  gazing  at  her  in  adulation,  turning  over 
in  the  back  of  her  mind  some  crumb  of  Madge's  opinions. 

"  Yes,  I've  often  thought  I  might  have  held  Gail  bet- 
ter if  I'd  made  some  play  to  other  men,"  harked  back 
Lena  in  a  whisper,  plainly  that  he  should  not  hear. 
Gail  pressed  his  ear  closer  to  the  bare  boards  with  the 
rack  of  picture  post-cards  left  by  the  cabin's  last  deni- 
zen. "  But  we've  never  been  near  a  likely  one  long 
enough,  and  Gail's  been  straight  enough  in  most 
things." 

His  ears  tingled,  in  a  hot  flood  of  shame  for  the  eaves- 
dropping. Ah,  but  could  Lena  never  be  so  frank  with 
him! 

"  No,  I  guess  you're  like  me  in  that,"  twanged  on 
Madge.  "  You're  one  of  us  western  women  from  your 
feet  up.  And  the  best  in  the  world  to  make  a  man  of 
a  loafing  husband  —  though  it  does  seem  how  you 
haven't." 

"  Yes,  it's  been  awful.  He's  really  no  good,"  agreed 
Arlene,  in  the  dissatisfied,  querulous  strain  that  Madge 
inspired.  Then,  sharply,  "But  cut  it,  won't  you? 
He's  in  there." 

Gail  winced,  in  a  mounting  anger. 

"  So  about  our  salmon,"  resumed  the  other,  ostenta- 
tiously raising  her  voice.  "  It's  a  dirty  business,  but 


22         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

there  certainly  is  money  in  it,  if  you  stand  in  with  the 
Government.  Wilbur  ought  to  be  back  this  fall  with 
a  good  tainted  million  in  his  jeans  for  selling  out  to  the 
trust." 

"How  did  he  work  it?" 

"  Bought  our  last  year's  pack.  It  made  a  big  show- 
ing when  their  agent  saw  it  piled  on  the  wharf.  But 
for  a  fact,  there's  hardly  a  salmon,  except '  humpbacks,' 
left  in  any  crick  flowing  into  Katchak  Bay.  We've 
fished  her  out  down  to  the  last  parr,  and  that  means 
she'll  stay  barren  till  kingdom  come,"  chuckled  Madge. 
"  They're  stung,  all  right." 

"  Then  you  must  have  put  up  weirs,  or  never  re- 
stocked." 

"  Both.  The  fish  inspector  just  fell  over  himself  to 
be  bought  off.  The  old  trimmer,  in  on  the  ground 
floor,"  she  sneered,  "  of  *  the  nation's  resources  to  con- 
serve for  the  whole  people.' ' 

Gail  stirred  on  the  bed  in  an  uneasy,  instinctive  dis- 
gust. And  yet  how  dejectedly  he  had  voiced  his  ig- 
norance of  pioneering  half  an  hour  gone. 

"  But  Wilbur  and  I  do  need  the  price.  What  have 
I  been  slaving  for  all  these  years  to  make  us  a  place  to 
fill  in  Seattle  society,  if  we  can't  enjoy  it?  " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're  going  to  live  in 
Seattle  when  you've  salted  down  that  million?  "  asked 
Arlene.  "  I  didn't  know  that  folks  fixed  like  you  ever 
stayed  in  the  Northwest.  I  hear  even  the  ranchers  east 
of  the  mountains  don't,  after  they've  laid  enough  by. 
This  country  won't  take  to  the  home  feeling.  It  ain't 
like  California.  But  doesn't  the  East  read  a  sight  of 
rot  about  it,  put  out  by  the  railroads  ?  " 

Gail  recoiled;  yet  was  not  this  but  an  echo  of  him- 
self, of  that  self  that  now  seemed  long  dead  and  buried? 


THE    AWAKENING  23 

"  I'd  like  to  find  any  other  town  that  would  stand  for 
me,"  said  Mrs.  Arnold,  grimly. 

A  silence.     Then  Lena  ventured  — 

"  Do  you  ever  feel  it's  a  pity  that  you've  got  no  chil- 
dren to  share  all  your  money  with?  " 

Gail  started,  craning  forward,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the 
cracked  mirror  of  the  bare  bureau-washstand.  Was 
she,  as  never  with  him,  about  to  unbosom  herself  to  this 
woman,  and  on  that  matter  closest  to  his  dreams? 

"  Why  should  I,  dear  ?  "  retorted  Madge,  with  a  mock 
archness.  "  We  women  out  here  may  put  gumption 
into  our  men-folks,  but  as  Wilbur  says,  never  marry 
one  of  us,  if  you  hanker  for  a  home.  You  think  I  want 
a  lot  of  rakes  to  blow  our  money  in?  Get  and  enjoy 
yourself,  I  say,  live  while  we  can,  for  we  can't  suffer 
nor  rejoice  when  we're  dead  and  gone,  no  matter  what 
the  churches  used  to  say.  There's  always  plenty  to 
come  up  from  the  ranks  and  take  your  place  in  the 
world.  I  believe  that  it  ain't  right  in  a  democracy  like 
ours  for  more  than  one  generation  to  spend  what  it 
earns  by  the  sweat  of  its  brow.  It  ain't  fair  to  the  ones 
that  want  to  rise.  Our  country's  founded  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  giving  everyone  a  show." 

A  loathing  for  her  flooded  Gail ;  less  her  brutal  frank- 
ness than  her  monstrous  philosophy  revulsed  him.  He 
banged  his  foot  against  the  frail  partition;  but,  un- 
heeding, Madge  continued  her  corroding  valedictory. 

"  If  the  people  who  first  come  to  this  coast  had  kept 
up  that  family  idea,  Wilbur  and  I  might  not  have  our 
share  of  property  now.  They've  got  the  richest  land 
in  the  world  out  here,  there's  no  other  white  man's 
country  left  on  the  shores  of  this  Pacific  Ocean.  It's 
God's  youngest  world,  all  right,  and  the  Lord  made  it 
for  smarter  things  than  breeding.  And  I'll  bet  you 


24         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

there  ain't  a  happier  woman  in  the  whole  city  of  Seattle 
than  Madge  Arnold." 

"  So  you'd  have  us  all  like  your  salmon  bay,"  pon- 
dered Lena.  "  Like  this  whole  western  country,  to  be 
honest.  Exhausted  and  used  up,  when  it  ought  to  be 
hardly  scratched.  Like  the  timber  and  fish  at  the  rate 
they're  going.  Killing  the  goose  and  smashing  her 
golden  eggs." 

"  Well,  ain't  it  our  goose,  to  do  with  as  we  see  fit  ?  " 
challenged  Madge.  "  Why  should  we  be  responsible 
for  them  that  comes  after  us  ?  Let  'em  shift  for  their- 
selves,  like  we  have." 

"  But  your  way,  there  won't  be  any  coming  after,'* 
argued  Lena.  "  Still,  I  naturally  do  agree  with  you  " 
—  always  she  parroted  Madge  — "  but  don't  you  let 
Gail  hear  us." 

Yet  clearly  they  had  both  forgotten  him.  Gail  was 
on  his  feet,  his  face  fixed  like  a  mask  of  iron.  Reck- 
less, passionate,  many  of  his  deeds  had  been,  but  never 
such  nauseating  thoughts.  .  .  .  That  pair!  Were  all 
wives  in  this  young,  free  world  of  the  West  like  them  — 
typical,  as  Madge  had  said — .so  selfish,  sordid,  blight- 
ing? Never!  Somewhere  must  exist  the  innocent,  the 
brave,  the  hopeful;  women  who  had  faith  in  them- 
selves, in  whom  they  loved,  in  this  new,  chaotic  land. 
.  .  .  Like  Martha.  And  there  sprang  out  in  Gail's 
mind  one  unseating  memory  of  her;  her  gaze  backward 
from  the  SJcagit's  deck  as  they  left  Port  Angeles  that 
palpitant  morning ;  her  pointing  to  the  bluish  haze  over 
the  lime-kilns,  as  she  said,  "  Don't  tell  me  —  love  burns 
out  that  way." 

He  stiffened,  at  the  impact  of  an  overpowering  im- 
pulse. Then,  from  Madge: 


THE    AWAKENING  25 

"  In  some  ways,  Lena,  I've  always  thought  you  a 
very  easy  woman.  A  girl  who  bears  the  brunt  of  her 
husband's  failures  like  you  do,  don't  get  much  out  of 
life.  You  was  made  to  cut  a  bigger  figure  out  in  this 
country.  Now,  I  wish  you'd  come  back  to  town  with 
me,  and  take  a  vacation.  We  two  could  have  a  big  time 
nights,  crashing  around  in  Wilbur's  motor,  at  the  Berlin 
cafe  and  places  like  that.  It  might  put  a  crimp  into 
your  Angel  Gabriel  to  hear  you  had  a  fling." 

Gail  felt  himself  trembling  in  every  limb  as  he  awaited 
Arlene's  answer ;  but  he  did  not  recognise  the  rage  that 
shook  him,  until  his  wife,  starting  with  peevish  discon- 
tent, had  concluded  saying  — 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  I  might,  Madge.  Gail  has 
just  said  that  he  was  fixed  to  quit  me,  only  for  a  time, 
but  I  suspect  he  means  for  good.  I'm  allowing  him  to 
go,  but  I  don't  want  to  let  on  how  willingly.  The  one 
reason  that  riles  me  is  that  he's  heard  from  a  woman 
he  used  to  live  with.  She  had  a  kid  by  him.  Yes,  he 
treated  her  square,  and  I  wouldn't  kick  at  his  paying 
her  a  visit.  She's  been  sick,  and  he  won't  take  up  with 
her  for  good.  He's  promised  me  that,  and  you  can 
generally  believe  Gail.  But  just  the  idea  of  his  seeing 
that  kid  some  day  —  his  own  flesh  and  blood  which  I 
haven't  got  him  —  I  can't  begin  to  stand  that."  She 
paused,  to  add  with  a  flash  of  cruelty,  "  It  makes  me 
feel  like  the  very  hell  — " 

Livid,  Gail  flung  open  the  door.  The  kitchen  swam 
before  him.  His  fingers  tightened  into  his  palms.  The 
idea  of  a  moment  back  flamed  through  him,  into  a 
resolution. 

Martha,  the  boy,  suffering  down  there.  .  .  .  Here, 
these  false,  despoiling  creatures.  .  .  . 


26        THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 


m 

Mrs.  Arnold,  the  purple  cloak  thrown  back,  in  an 
ample,  open-work  shirtwaist  which  pricked  out  her 
white  and  flaccid  skin,  lolled  on  the  horsehair  sofa. 
With  the  bronze  hair  piled  over  her  steamed  features, 
the  fuzz  along  her  upper  lip,  she  was  like  some  big  rep- 
tile, a  reddish  salamander. 

Back-to  by  the  stove,  Lena  was  hanging  up  her  dish- 
towels.  She  had  put  on  Madge's  scoop  hat  with  its 
waving  green  willow-plumes. 

She  turned,  open-mouthed,  as  Gail's  guttural  voice 
confronted,  cut  in  on  them.  Madge  raised  herself  with 
a  glance  at  her  chum,  first  amused,  but  instantly  incit- 
ing, hateful. 

"  I'm  leaving  you  right  off,  Lena,"  Gail  gripped  him- 
self. "  And  I  want  to  eat  my  words  about  not  going 
to  Martha.  .  .  .  The  down  train's  due  in  fifteen 
minutes." 

He  quaked  with  excitement.  His  large  Adam's  apple 
vibrated. 

"  You're  going  to  her,  for  your  boy,"  she  beset  him 
angrily,  yet  overawed.  "  Don't  you  bring  him  back 
here.  I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"  He  wouldn't  dare,  dearie,"  broke  in  Madge,  with  a 
soft  taunt.  "  A  loafer  like  him." 

"  That's  just  what  I  —  will  do,"  Gail's  voice  shook. 
"  It's  the  only  chance  to  redeem  you,  to  do  the  decent 
and  just  thing  by  Martha.  She  wants  me  to  take  the 
kid  for  a  while."  His  eyes  danced.  "  You're  my  wife. 
You've  got  to  stand  it.  And  I  forbid  your  traveling 
with  this  woman." 

"  He's  been  spying  on  us,  Lena,"  whined  she,  her  face 


THE    A  WAKENING  27 

hardening  terribly.  "  But  what  should  you  care  ? 
You  come  with  me.  He  can't  stop  you." 

"  Understand,  Arlene,  I'm  not  quitting  you  for 
good,"  Gail  ignored  her,  squaring  himself  before  his 
wife.  "  We'll  work  all  this  business  out,  you  and  I, 
right  here  and  now." 

The  women  glared  at  him,  speechless,  overcome. 
Madge,  with  an  effort  at  truculence,  rose  and  smoothed 
with  both  hands  the  long  coat  over  her  hips.  Gail  fum- 
bled in  his  pockets,  and  drew  out  three  ten  dollar  bills 
and  some  silver. 

"  It's  all  the  money  we  have,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  There  —  take  this.  I  may  need  the  rest,"  and  he 
crushed  one  of  the  notes  into  Lena's  limp  hand. 

For  the  second  time,  Gail's  arms  folded  around  her. 
She  could  not  resist.  Their  faces  met  —  those  features 
which  each  knew  so  well  down  to  their  tiniest  lines ; 
which  in  the  eyes  of  each  had  undergone  the  creeping 
changes  that  passion,  revulsion,  in  their  infinite  grades, 
conspiring  with  the  years  to  mystify  them  —  to  hold 
together,  to  separate  them  —  had  etched  there. 

Gail  kissed  her,  thrust  her  from  him.  The  showy  hat 
fell  to  the  floor.  He  threw  open  the  porch  door. 

"  Don't.  Don't  leave  me,  Gail,"  she  gasped,  obliv- 
ious of  Madge,  her  small  eyes  moistening.  "  Come 
back!" 

Gail  heard  Mrs.  Arnold  muster  a  man's  oath. 

The  door  slammed  behind  him.  He  was  outside 
among  the  innumerable  parallels  of  the  strawberry 
vines. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 


GAIL  hurried  down  the  trail  toward  the  station.  The 
clear  sky,  the  sunny  May  air,  the  dense  and  gigantic 
forests  all  about,  soothed  and  inspired  him  with  an  un- 
familiar sense  of  freedom.  The  lush  vines  and  dank 
soil,  the  redolent  spruciness  that  he  inhaled,  never  be- 
fore had  spoken  to  him  so  keenly  of  the  wide-worldliness 
of  living.  The  even  rows  of  the  strawberry  plants 
seemed  to  touch  him  gently,  as  with  the  points  of  count- 
less flails.  They  were  like  the  revolving  spokes  of  two 
huge  wheels,  which  ground  him  forward  irresistibly. 

His  boy!  Through  all  his  wastrel  years,  he  had 
loved  no  living  thing  more  than  his  own  strong  body. 
And  now  it  lay  re-imaged  in  his  blood  and  sinew,  some- 
where yonder  behind  the  haze  over  those  sombre  fir-tops, 
out  there  in  the  Youngest  World. 

Life  had  begun  anew. 

He  sprang  upon  the  rotting  boardwalk  that  led  into 
the  settlement.  He  sped  through  the  dense  under- 
growth of  bracken  ferns,  among  the  frame  shacks 
streaked  with  moisture.  He  passed  the  "  Cadillac 
Hotel,"  its  shingles  bulging  with  moss  nourished  by  the 
ten  months  of  drizzle,  the  "  No  Minors  Allowed  "  sign 
in  a  bar  window. 

In  the  railroad  station,  the  grey-haired,  torpid  sta- 
tion-master banged  up  the  ticket  window,  drew  on  his 
bombazine  sleevelets.  Gail  paid  his  fare.  The  shriek 


THE    CITY    OF    DREAMS  29 

of  an  approaching  engine  reverberated  through  the 
wilderness.  The  down  local,  as  he  knew,  stopped  for 
hardly  a  minute.  Out  on  the  platform  he  swung  into 
the  smoking-car,  to  a  parting  shout  from  the  hair- 
lipped  boy,  who  was  eating  strawberries  on  an  express 
crate. 

But  he  was  off !  —  and  filled  again  with  his  exalted 
musings.  They  swarmed  through  the  open  windows  of 
the  car,  in  the  alternating  lights  and  darknesses  of  the 
virgin  forest,  from  dismal  cedar  swamps,  out  of  the 
chaos  of  lumber-camps. 

The  boy  would  regenerate  Lena.  And  what  a  mother 
she  might  become,  if  dowered  with  a  mother's  loving- 
ness  !  They  three  would  move  east  of  the  Cascades  and 
begin  life  over  again.  He  would  acquire  the  power 
of  the  West's  ambitions,  whose  spell  had  always  been 
so  closed  a  book  to  him.  He  would  feel  its  fervour  to 
construct  and  to  possess,  to  wrest  riches  cleanly  from 
the  soil,  to  tame  a  space  of  the  wilderness  with  his  hands, 
as  a  home  for  his  blood  forever. 

Thus  the  gates  of  thought  in  Gail  opened  slowly, 
from  the  point  to  which  his  life  at  college  had  swung 
them,  and  his  married,  unproductive  years  had  riveted 
them.  The  habit  which  he  had  had  to  conceive  shadowy 
figments  of  chemical  discovery  had  long  lain  in  abey- 
ance. His  mind's  penetrating,  imaginative  power  had 
grown  dull.  Now  visions  far  more  dazzling  for  being 
rooted  within  the  heart  of  all  the  inexplicable  turmoil 
of  life  possessed  him,  reawakened  that  power,  sharpened 
and  stimulated  it. 

An  arrogant  sense  of  his  creative  manhood  filled  him, 
He  felt  no  guilt  at  quitting  the  cabin.  The  inspiration 
of  his  quest  smothered  any  pang  of  regret.  After  all, 
Lena,  not  he,  was  the  sterile  one. 


30        THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Then,  as  was  usual  with  Gail,  a  sense  of  his  own  un- 
worthiness  overtook  him;  and  with  this,  a  certain  hard 
frankness  toward  himself,  which  he  had  felt  seldom  since 
his  student  days.  He  weighed  his  ill-repute  in  most 
camps  west  of  the  mountains.  ..."  That  Thain,  the 
gambler's  son,"  foremen  told  their  chiefs  to  assure  a 
refusal  of  his  application  for  a  job.  "  If  he  ever  had 
any  of  his  father's  grit  or  smartness,  his  college  educa- 
tion spoiled  them.  Used  to  captain  the  university  ball 
team.  Run  away  with  that  speculator's  daughter. 
But  I  see  she  still  prefers  to  cook  for  him,"  they  would 
add,  with  the  perverse  gallantry  of  the  frontier.  .  .  . 
Gail  gritted  his  teeth.  All  that  was  past  and  over. 

He  accounted  largely  for  his  apathies  by  the  fact 
that  he  was  an  Easterner,  from  a  town  in  Iowa,  so  his 
father  had  told  him.  He  felt  that  he  was  born  to  be 
out  of  touch  with  the  ardour  of  the  West.  He  had  come 
to  Seattle  when  too  young  to  remember  the  journey. 
His  earliest  recollection  was  of  the  old  man's  gambling 
place  and  the  grizzled  men  from  a  gold-strike  in  British 
Columbia,  with  their  raw-hide  pokes  of  dust;  the  sleek, 
stout  "  regulars,"  the  stooping  young  "  remittance 
men,"  who  spoke  with  British  "  a's  "  and  no  one  re- 
spected, lumping  them  sneeringly  with  Easterners,  as 
beings  who  were  wasteful  and  parasitic.  And  his  father 
when  drunk,  or  when  the  braced  wheel  went  against  the 
house,  would  curse  the  western  country,  gripping  his 
long  moustaches  as  they  crawled  to  bed  in  the  choked 
sunlight  of  their  alcove  behind  the  baize  table  piled  with 
faro  cases.  Or  then  he  might  talk  of  having  once 
owned  a  lumber  mill,  of  captaining  a  salmon  schooner; 
of  his  "  nice  folks  "  in  the  East,  with  whom  he  had 
quarrelled,  over  a  debt,  or  a  theft,  or  a  woman  —  the 
version  varied. 


THE   CITY   OF   DREAMS  31 

These  were  Gail's  first  impressions  of  a  home,  up  to 
the  day  that  the  book-maker  put  four  bullets  into  the 
old  man's  abdomen  at  the  Meadows  race-course.  It  was 
a  week  later  that  Nick  Pelcher  (one  of  the  regulars, 
president  though  he  was  of  a  national  bank)  offered 
the  boy  an  education,  after  he  had  won  two  events  in 
the  A.  0.  H.  athletic  meet  at  Madison  Park  one  driz- 
zling Labour  Day. 

But  Lena  was  indelibly  of  the  West,  in  root  and 
bloom  and  fibre.  "  The  last  clean-up  of  'forty-niners 
who  always  staked  too  wisely  to  pan  a  fortune,"  she 
had  said  bitterly  on  the  day  Gail  lost  his  job  at  the 
oyster  farm. 

Thus,  as  the  passing  forests  along  the  railway 
thinned,  the  contradiction  bewildered  him:  The  opulent 
frontier  and  Lena:  the  East,  so  reproached  for  being 
barren  and  worn  out,  and  his  ache  for  a  fleshy  continu- 
ance of  his  own  being. 


A  hand  pressed  his  shoulder,  a  voice  demanded  his 
ticket.  Aroused  thus  to  look  about  his  car,  he  saw  that 
he  was  alone  in  it.  He  began  to  scout  an  illusion  that 
it  was  traveling  cityward  as  an  especial  convoy  for  him. 
The  country  outside  had  been  transformed  by  the  even- 
rowed,  white-washed  peachtrees  of  farms,  fenced  in  as  if 
by  dykes  against  the  spinous  tides  of  the  forest.  There 
were  acres  of  rank  potato-fields,  tall  raspberry  vines, 
pale  hops  creeping  up  their  brushy  climbs.  He  felt 
his  happiness  to  be  somehow  inherent  in  all  that  passing 
luxuriance,  to  be  clicked  and  iterated  by  the  turning 
car-wheels,  as  by  a  voice  from  the  mountainous  vast  be- 
hind, in  a  chant  that  grew  tenser  and  more  moving  the 
nearer  the  teeming  city  drew. 


32         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

His  thoughts  set  into  a  seethe. 

All  about  him,  with  patience  and  self-denial,  men 
tamed  this  wilderness.  Never  before  in  his  twenty-five 
years  of  living  had  the  badges  of  toil  appeared  so  al- 
luring. Never  before  had  this  Youngest  World  of  his 
smiled  so  through  its  scars.  Now,  if  ever,  was  his  time 
to  master  the  lesson  of  why  its  pioneers  excelled  him 
in  every  attainment.  Why  should  he  distrust  their  toil 
as  vain,  the  land's  fertility  as  useless,  its  youthful  life 
as  blighted  by  complexity?  He,  too,  was  a  pioneer 
by  circumstance,  in  everything  except  his  soul. 
Speeding  now  along  this  chain  of  mills  and  barnyards, 
of  stores  and  fruitfields,  he  saw  himself  as  a  link  sepa- 
rate from  it,  a  link  cast  outside.  He  felt  that  his  fu- 
ture and  his  son's  hung  upon  his  forging  himself  within 
that  chain.  In  this  momentary  freedom  which  he  had 
seized,  he  must  grapple  with  the  problem  of  his  futility 
• —  freed  from  the  yearning  of  idle  years,  from  all  their 
chagrins  and  trivialities. 

All  at  once  he  tingled  with  an  inner  gleam.  It  was 
mingled  with  self-reproach,  but  it  seemed  to  him  to  be 
a  flash  of  fundamental  wisdom.  This:  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  work  was  no  less  divine  than  father- 
hood? That  to  beget  and  to  labour  could  not  be  di- 
vided? 

Did  not  his  fellow-men  wrestle  with  the  land  for 
wheat  and  gold,  in  order  to  assure  the  life  of  their  chil- 
dren? Had  they  all  not  hewn  and  hungered,  while  he 
had  only  growled  and  coveted,  guided  by  the  same  deep 
instinct  of  mankind:  To  recast  their  bodies  endlessly? 
In  his  fret  for  a  son,  had  he  not  blindly  put  the  cart 
before  the  horse?  Cried  for  the  house  without  build- 
ing the  scaffold?  Asked  for  coal  to  burn  without 
sweating  in  the  mine? 


THE    CITY    OF    DREAMS 


ni 

He  started  up  in  the  slant  light  of  afternoon.  The 
train  was  rumbling  across  piles,  and  he  smelt  the  salti- 
ness of  black  mud  at  low  tide.  There  to  the  right  rose 
shattered  cliffs  of  clay,  the  reddish,  unweathered  joists 
of  new  dwellings  perched  above  the  roar  and  trumpet- 
ing of  sawmills.  To  the  left,  under  a  cloud  of  sea-gulls 
swinging  over  the  tidelands,  a  glimmer  of  deep  water, 
snowy  mountain-peaks  beyond:  Seattle,  gorging  herself 
upon  her  hills,  an  adamantine  blur  under  brownish  coal 
smoke,  edged  with  the  tattered  giants  of  the  forests 
that  she  seemed  eating  into  like  a  sore. 

As  the  train  stopped  under  the  shed  on  the  docks, 
Gail  remembered  that  Martha's  letter  gave  no  address. 
But  surely  someone  in  the  lunchroom  knew  where  she 
lived.  He  ran  through  the  station,  crossed  under  the 
monstrous  emblem  of  Totem  Square,  and  reaching  Sec- 
ond Avenue  boarded  a  Pike  Street  trolley. 

The  blond  lady  behind  the  gas-cookers  of  Minker's 
window  received  his  questions  languidly.  She  pressed 
a  button  in  her  cage.  A  small,  sallow  man  in  a  black 
alpaca  jacket  stepped  forward  and  answered  Gail  with 
condescension.  No:  Miss  Thain  had  left  there  two 
weeks  ago.  Did  any  of  the  serving  ladies  know  where 
she  roomed?  The  manager  turned  to  them.  Hardly; 
so  Gail  gathered  more  from  a  general  raising  of  their 
eyebrows  and  a  prodding  of  hair  with  pencils,  than 
from  the  lips  of  any  aproned  girl  at  her  stone-topped 
table.  Miss  Thain  (his  name,  again!)  had  kept  to  her- 
self, one  of  them  volunteered,  had  no  friends  that  she 
knew  of.  Only  the  assistant  manager,  said  their  in- 
terlocutor, who  came  on  at  midnight  to  fine  for  break- 
age, knew  the  girls'  addresses,  and  it  was  against  the 


34         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

rules  to  tell  them  to  strangers.  Still,  he  might  ask  the 
night  man. 

"  She's  my  —  wife !  "  blurted  Gail,  crimson,  clench- 
ing his  fists,  for  that  sallow  imp  had  begun  to  smirk. 

Midnight.  So  he  would  have  to  wait  till  then.  The 
girls  drew  together  and  whispered  in  a  conscious  dis- 
regard of  the  handsome,  rather  weary-looking  youth  in 
the  blue  jacket  and  baggy  khahi,  standing  there  dazed, 
in  the  smell  of  coffee  and  browning  sinkers.  He  turned 
to  the  door.  A  street-car  conductor  was  shoving  the 
blond  lady  a  dollar.  She  made  a  show  of  rattling  his 
change  and  pinioning  the  check  behind  her  bowl  of 
toothpicks.  Gail  followed  him  to  the  street. 

He  threaded  the  crowds  of  Second  Avenue,  toward 
the  sordid,  swarming  region,  then  "  unrestricted," 
south  of  the  Yesler  Way.  That  was  Seattle  to  him, 
Seattle  to  the  West's  far-flung  manhood,  the  city  des- 
tined as  the  world's  last  metropolis  —  the  City  of 
Dreams.  There  gathered  the  best  and  the  worst  men 
of  the  new  century,  the  alertest  and  the  weariest,  the 
most  brave  and  the  most  weak,  upon  the  final  frontier. 

To  dream,  but  to  Work.  That  was  the  watchword 
of  the  city,  as  it  offered  promises  as  golden  as  men  have 
ever  heard.  The  price :  toil,  brains,  and  gold  —  but 
chiefly  toil  —  for  its  harsh  endeavours  and  costly  risks. 
And  the  toilers,  heavy-booted  men  clad  in  mackinaws, 
shuffling  unceasingly  along  those  streets  below  the 
"  dead-line."  Seattle  battened  upon  them ;  and  they, 
according  to  the  will  or  the  genius  in  them,  the  sinew 
in  the  back  of  each,  the  youth  in  his  soul,  fulfilled  or 
rejected  her  chimeras. 

Here  swarmed  a  floating  populace  such  as  no  other 
city  in  times  of  peace  ever  focussed  upon  its  streets. 
Gail  knew  them  —  the  outcasts  of  industry,  the  peas- 


THE    CITY    OF    DREAMS  35 

antry  of  adventure;  men  born  without  hope,  men  whose 
wealth  and  valour  were  their  visions;  men  to  whom  la- 
bour was  life,  to  whom  it  was  mortification.  He  knew, 
too,  their  gods  and  their  devils,  the  leaded  dice  and  the 
doctored  whisky,  the  fluffed  and  flabby  creatures  of 
the  long,  fetid  crib-houses;  the  strike-leaders  with  thin 
lips,  the  strike-breakers  with  thinner  hearts,  and  the 
haggard  corner-preachers  of  an  effortless  Utopia. 
Gail  knew  them  all  —  the  philosophers,  jesters,  assas- 
sins of  the  City  of  Dreams. 

Along  Occidental  Avenue  the  click  of  pool-balls  is- 
sued out  of  cellars.  Salmon  and  hamburger-and-onions 
sizzled  across  the  enamel  cloth  of  street  booths.  A 
crowd  surrounded  a  cart-tail  dentist,  as  he  extracted 
teeth  from  a  stout,  brown-faced  man,  who  spat  blood 
and  grinned  sheepishly.  On  the  next  corner  a  slant- 
shouldered,  bearded  Slav  in  a  linen  duster  was  lam- 
basting the  Tsar  of  Rooshia,  preaching  socialism,  athe- 
ism, and  quoting  the  Rubaiyat  (as  the  work  of  a  Greek 
poet)  all  in  one  breath.  And  each  drab  ring  of  loi- 
terers listened  on  silently,  intently,  but  unmoved.  The 
prophet  flung  out  to  them  promises  of  salvation 
wrapped  in  murder,  as  thanklessly  as  his  brother  quack 
distributed  sample  phials  in  envelopes.  Yet  Gail  knew 
that  the  thoughts  of  all  those  unshaven  faces,  under 
their  weathered  felt  hats,  were  strong  and  reached  far 
away.  He  might  be  blind  to  the  remoter  ends  of  pio- 
neering in  the  distant  opens,  yet  he  also  had  felt  the 
goad  of  hunger;  and  this  was  his  old  haunt,  these  men 
were  his  familiars  from  boyhood,  and  he  was  one  of 
them.  The  man  next  him  was  weighing,  perhaps, 
whether  he  should  ship  on  the  next  day's  steamer  for 
Alaska,  to  hold  a  No.  &  drill  on  some  gale-swept  ledge 
in  the  blue  shadow  of  a  glacier.  Maybe  he  could  earn 


36         THEYOUNGEST   WORLD 

a  grubstake  there,  and  his  life  would  brighten  again, 
hitting  the  dim  trail  on  some  stampede  to  new  gold 
placers.  Another  doggedly  reckoned  the  wages  for 
lumber- jacks  that  were  stencilled  on  the  red  and  green 
placards  outside  the  many  employment  offices,  which 
shaved  the  worth  of  human  fibre  to  the  odd  cent.  Brawn 
was  lured  to  the  skids  in  fractions  of  a  dime.  The 
number  of  quarts  of  beans  he  must  boil  a  day  chal- 
lenged any  cook  on  the  street,  and  if  his  fare  would  be 
paid  out  from  the  city  or  not. 

Evening  drew  on.  Across  the  Sound,  the  late  sun, 
sinking  behind  the  sharp  Olympic  peaks,  withdrew  his 
flush  from  their  snowfields,  like  blood  fading  from  living 
flesh.  The  sky  darkened  under  the  pitchy  belching 
from  some  power  station,  the  benediction  of  Toil  upon 
her  multitude.  In  a  sudden  hush,  the  pavements  waxed 
resonant  with  the  sfft  of  feet.  High  on  the  hill  above, 
the  light-ringed  dome  of  the  city  hall  leaped  into  in- 
candescence. 

The  multitude.  It  began  to  overcome  him  that  these 
visions  which  he  grasped  with  its  feelings,  saw  with  its 
eyes,  he  had  always  known  and  felt.  Yet  not  until  this 
moment,  as  he  heard  those  Salvation  Army  lassies  there 
on  the  corner  of  First  Avenue  chanting  about  their 
lithographed  hereafter,  had  his  heart  opened  upon  the 
multitude's  desires,  ready  to  tremble  at  the  pathos  of 
them,  to  kindle  with  its  hopes.  Sympathy  —  that  was 
no  word  for  it.  He  yearned  to  merge  himself  with  the 
crowds,  to  endure  and  to  dream  as  an  atom  of  the  swarm. 


IV 

The  darkness  had  increased  the  turmoil  of  the  streets. 
A  gasolene  flare  hissed  over  a  tray  of  files  and  pocket- 


THE    CITY    OF    DREAMS  37 

knives,  under  the  tarnished  balls  of  a  pawn-shop.  A 
seller  of  songs  without  the  music  hobbled  past  on 
a  crutch,  shouting.  Against  the  dead-wall  of  the 
"  Paris  "  crib-house  opposite,  a  barker  pointed  to  the 
sinister  lines  of  a  boycott  poster.  Where  the  dentist 
had  stood,  a  pock-marked  phrenologist,  shouting  that 
he  had  been  ordained  a  Catholic  priest,  peddled  fate  in 
black  gloves  and  a  Prince  Albert  coat.  A  street-evan- 
gelist arose  on  the  atheist's  corner,  and  began  to  var- 
nish souls  with  brimstone.  "  I  t'ank  dem  fellers  is  all 
a  trust,"  said  a  lanky  Dane  at  Gail's  side. 

Trolley  cars  buzzed  past,  shattering  the  brooding  cir- 
cles of  listeners,  which  instantly,  contracted.  The  lac- 
quered sheen  of  a  big  motor  car  swayed  along,  and 
dumped  its  tailored  burdens  at  the  foot  of  a  narrow 
stairway  that  shot  up  to  thick-curtained  windows  in  the 
middle  of  the  block.  Gail  remembered  the  number  of 
the  house,  but  a  new  name  was  painted  on  the  lighted 
glass  transom.  Never  had  such  a  place  seemed  so  hide- 
ous. For  today  his  body  was  sacred.  It  was  years 
since  he  had  felt  so  young,  so  fresh  in  spirit. 

And  not  a  woman  was  in  sight,  except  the  lean  Salva- 
tion girls,  and  they  were  singing  in  Swedish,  as  if  So- 
wegians  alone  deserved,  or  needed,  saving.  Men, 
everywhere  and  only  men.  The  flavour  of  the  male  was 
surfeiting;  the  feel  of  his  latent  power  to  subdue  and 
populate,  appalling.  Woman  was  hidden  behind  fur- 
tive walls ;  a  chattel,  soulless,  diverting,  that  entered 
men's  talk  to  break  it  off  with  chuckles.  Thieves  and 
gamblers,  even,  thereabout  prized  their  spark  of  sex. 
Whatever  hope  or  aim  in  life,  however  dim,  burned  on 
anyone's  horizon  in  his  present  purgatory  —  however 
halting  its  pursuit  —  women  were  but  coloured  toys. 
Man  expected  the  paint  on  them  to  be  poisonous. 


88         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

Why?  The  bodies  of  the  multitude,  as  well,  were 
sacred  to  themselves. 

And  what  was  the  deeper  aim  of  each  man  about  him? 
Of  the  cooks,  lumber-jacks,  pickpockets  in  the  blaze  of 
these  feverish  streets?  And  uptown,  in  their  cushioned 
homes  and  leather-chaired  hotels,  no  less  of  the  railway 
Aladdins,  the  j  owled  timber  and  salmon  kings  ?  To  weld 
himself  into  these  surrounding  chains  of  life,  as  he  had 
resolved  on  the  train,  he  must  read  the  purposes  and 
ends  of  many  men,  and  why  they  were  such  and  such. 
And  that  should  not  be  hard.  For  whoever  had  not  at- 
tained his  goal,  nursed  a  void  in  his  soul;  and  friend- 
ships were  the  bridges  cast  out  upon  voids.  And  if  any 
man  had  gained  his  desire,  he  would  burn  to  confide 
how. 

It  seemed  as  if  some  strength  outside  himself  faced 
him  toward  new  aspirations.  It  was  as  though  a  de- 
tached intelligence,  inherently  good,  had  begun  to  guide 
him ;  Nature,  perhaps,  seeking  blindly  to  restore  his  de- 
fects of  her  own  making.  He  would  study  the  multi- 
tude, searching  all  men  for  the  brooding  thirsts,  the 
voids  and  treasures  in  their  souls. 

His  mind  groped  from  this  fog  of  speculation,  with 
a  shy  sense  of  its  heightened  simplicity.  He  was  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  big  plate  glass  of  a  dazzling  window 
filled  with  union  underwear.  Blue  placards  labelled 
the  limp,  whitish  suits  with  "  cut "  prices.  Beside  him, 
with  hands  in  his  pockets,  was  a  red-haired,  freckled 
youth  in  a  plaid  mackinaw  twice  too  big  for  him  and  a 
skull  cap  too  small.  His  wide  brown  eyes  and  a  sharp 
chin  gave  him  a  bull-dog  kind  of  look,  but  the  two  deep 
lines  at  each  side  of  his  mouth  were  sad  and  shadowy. 

That  mother's  son,  also,  nursed  his  void. 


THE    CITY   OF   DREAMS          89 


Across  the  street,  "  Fish  Dinner  "  zigzagged  upon  a 
window  in  letters  made  by  soap  reminded  Gail  that  he 
had  not  eaten  since  breakfast.  In  there,  he  sat  on  a 
stool  by  the  counter  over  his  oyster  fry,  grasping  a 
thick  mug  of  coffee.  Outside  again,  he  entered  the 
fake-mahogany  splendour  of  a  saloon  and  gulped  a  glass 
of  beer.  Through  the  swinging  doors  of  others,  he 
heard  the  arguments  at  the  bars  wax  more  vociferous  as 
the  night  advanced.  He  bought  an  "  Appeal  to  Rea- 
son "  from  a  stunted  boy  in  a  grey  sweater,  and,  plung- 
ing below  the  sidewalk,  paid  a  dime  at  the  ticket-coop 
of  the  Mascot  Theatre  to  read  it  there.  But  on  his 
bench  in  the  cellar,  which  smelt  of  sour  molasses,  he 
found  that  the  tramp  on  the  cramped  stage  handled  a 
homelier  philosophy,  as  he  sang: 

For  happiness  your  hearts  to  stir, 
The  gifts  of  birth  and  wealth  are  not  the  way. 
It  makes  no  difference  what  you  were  — 
It's  what  you  are  today. 

Then  his  dormant  foreboding  about  the  boy  and 
Martha  restlessly  drew  him  up  to  the  streets.  He 
threw  the  "  Appeal "  into  the  gutter.  The  doors  of  a 
saloon  on  the  diagonal  corner  flung  open,  and  a  crowd 
of  men  tumbled  into  the  street,  running  backwards  as 
they  reached  its  middle.  A  beer  bottle  whizzed  over 
their  heads  and  crashed  on  the  asphalt.  Two  policemen 
closed  in  on  the  throng,  and  a  Navy  bluejacket's  flat 
hat  shot  up  from  its  swaying  heart.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment of  shouts  and  struggling,  but  no  shots ;  in  the 
phrenologist's  audience  close  by,  scarcely  a  head  turned 
about.  Then  silence,  dispersal ;  the  sailor  walked  away 


40         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

between  the  two  patrolmen,  dogged  by  the  boy  in 
the  grey  sweater.  Lawlessness  on  the  last  frontier, 
that. 

But  it  was  then,  in  the  ensuing  hush,  as  the  drone  of 
the  renegade  priest  filled  the  street  again,  that  Gail  no- 
ticed the  covered  buggy  with  the  big  bay  horse  in  front 
of  the  New  England  Hotel— "Beds  15,  25,  35  cts," 
on  its  dim-lit  sign.  It  struck  him  as  a  neat,  shiny  rig 
for  that  part  of  town.  An  old  man  in  thick  spectacles 
and  a  straw  hat  was  standing  at  the  kerb,  talking  ear- 
nestly to  the  driver.  His  hands  kept  trembling  as  he 
spoke.  Suddenly  he  backed  off,  turned,  and  hurried 
up  the  stairway  to  the  New  England's  office',  whose  lights 
shone  out  over  the  big  hardware  store  on  the  street  floor. 
A  whip  flecked  the  bay,  and  the  buggy  started  up  Occi- 
dental Avenue  to  the  blare  of  a  foot-gong  on  the  dash- 
board. 

A  remote  twinge  of  apprehension  stirred  Gail.  He 
found  himself  asking  a  beefy  man  at  his  side,  who  was 
whistling  softly,  if  he  knew  who  owned  the  rig. 

"The   city   saw-bones," — interjected  into  his   tune. 

"  The's  always  dames  suiciding  in  them  temperance 
dumps." 

A  doctor!  He  might  need  one.  What  were  white 
sore  throats? 

"Where's  his  office?     I've  got  a  sick  friend." 

"  Ought  to  be  in  the  city  hall,  eh?  But  she'll  be 
closed  now." 

Yet  what  use,  until  he  knew  the  address?  He  would 
get  a  doctor  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 

At  eleven  o'clock,  Gail  stood  at  an  uptown  corner, 
far  from  the  Yesler  Way.  Here  was  the  centre  of  Se- 
attle's less  sordid  night  life,  where,  unlike  the  Mascot, 
one  might  encounter  the  pioneers  who  had  built  the 


THE    CITY    OF    DREAMS  41 

town,  with  their  wives  or  women,  the  ilk  of  Nick  Pel- 
cher  and  Wilbur  Arnold  —  the  idols  to  whom  the  multi- 
tude in  shoepacks  and  mackinaws  must  sell  their  vigour; 
and  mortgage  their  dreams. 

Again  he  slipped  below  the  sidewalk.  He  shook  dice 
with  a  Jew  girl  at  the  cigar  counter.  He  lost  and  paid 
double  for  the  smoke.  Then,  sitting  at  a  table,  he  or- 
dered a  seidel  of  beer,  as  the  white-robed  female  orches- 
tra struck  up  on  their  dais  under  artificial  palms. 

He  was  tired,  and  soon  the  rhythmic  fiddling  of  the 
sateen  ladies  caressed  his  ears  as  if  they  were 
filled  with  cotton-wool.  Out  the  window,  the  blazing 
sign  of  the  place,  which  he  had  not  noticed  before, 
slowly  branded  itself  upon  his  sleepy  eyes,  above  a  large 
chugging  motor.  He  read  the  name  that  he  had  heard 
from  Madge,  of  where  she  and  Lena  were  to  carouse: 
"  Berlin  Cafe."  The  smoky  haze  reeked  of  the  sala- 
mander, sickened  him,  and  he  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his 
lustrous  hair. 

The  clock  over  the  bar  pointed  at  twelve  minutes  to 
midnight.  Gail  paid  his  bill,  and  hurried  out  into  the 
cloudy  night  with  a  recreant  dulness  in  his  heart. 

VI 

Minker's  windows  defied  the  darkness  of  Pike  Street 
with  a  greenish  glare  of  mantle  gas  and  porcelain  tiles. 
But  inside,  the  stony  sheen  of  the  long  tables  filled  an 
empty  expanse.  A  couple  of  girls  without  aprons 
dozed  on  a  bench  in  the  rear.  A  late,  ominous  silence 
haunted  the  place,  soothed  by  the  sleepy  hiss  of  steam 
from  the  big  nickel  coffee-heater.  Gail  felt  that  busi- 
ness had  been  suspended,  awaiting  his  return.  And 
then  a  door  in  one  of  the  long  walls  opened.  A  lank, 
albino  young  man  with  close-cropped  hair  jerked  out, 


42         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

and  approached  as  if  Gail  had  been  expected.  He  had 
bad  teeth. 

"  You  the  gentleman  who  inquired  for  Miss  Thain 
this  afternoon  ?  "  he  asked.  His  pinkish  face  flushed, 
and  he  turned  his  head  away.  "  Well,  we  had  a  'phone 
message  from  down  there  early  tonight  —  perhaps 
you've  heard?  "  he  hesitated.  Gail  stared  blankly  past 
him.  "  It  was  the  proprietor  called  up,  but  we 
didn't  know  where  you'd  gone  — "  the  voice  broke  off, 
hushed. 

"What  place?"  asked  Gail,  huskily.  "Proprietor 
of  what?" 

All  the  fibres  in  his  body  tightened;  his  heart 
drummed  against  his  ribs.  The  night  manager  kept  his 
head  bowed,  reticently. 

"  Proprietor  of  the  hotel  where  she  lived,  I  guess," 
he  said.  "  Asked  us  if  we  knew  whether  she  had  any 
friends." 

"  What  hotel  ?  "  Gail  heard  his  own  voice,  as  if  a 
third  person  were  speaking. 

"  Someone  was  sick,  and  the  city  doctor  had  been 
there." 

"No  —  no!     No  — no!" 

The  albino  fumbled  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  white 
jacket.  "  I  got  the  number  of  the  room  written  here 
for  you,"  he  said  gently,  holding  out  a  slip  of  paper. 
"  The  New  England." 

"  Was  it  —  there  —  I  saw  them  ?  "  wavered  Gail. 
"  I  don't  remember.  .  .  .  No  —  no  I  .  .  ." 

He  felt  his  fingers,  cold  and  hard  as  steel,  close  on 
the  scrawl.  The  bright  convexity  of  the  coffee  tank 
cast  his  face  back  at  him,  distorted  and  clayey.  He 
crumpled  the  paper  and  flung  it  on  the  floor. 

Then  reason,  or  what  seemed  like  reason,  broke  out 


THE    CITY   OF    DREAMS  43 

in  him,  clearly,  hatefully.  His  mind  iterated,  like  a 
child  repeating  the  multiplication  table :  The  bay  horse 
times  the  neat  buggy,  made  the  trembling  old  man  in 
spectacles.  The  albino  voiced  some  sort  of  silly  hope 
or  pity  for  him,  and  the  next  moment  Gail  found  him- 
self groping  between  the  sepulchral  blueness  of  the  grid- 
dle-cake burners  in  the  street  windows ;  and  he  was  sit- 
ting in  an  open  trolley  with  the  nigffl  wind  and  a  slight 
drizzle  blowing  in  upon  him  coldly. 

No  — he  could  not  be  too  late.  That  would  be  too 
malign,  even  for  him.  They  were  only  sicker,  and  the 
lodging  people,  as  Martha  had  written,  were  kind. 
Anger  for  the  delay  seized  Gail ;  his  recent  aspiring,  de- 
lectable hours  crumbled  into  dross.  He  grew  aware 
of  the  electric  diadem  on  the  dome  of  the  city  hall  up 
the  hill  to  the  left,  floating  past  the  street  openings,  cut 
off  now  and  then  by  a  tall  building.  Surely  in  some 
other  city  long  ago,  instead  of  tonight,  he  had  seen  it 
glow  out.  Then  it  was  gone;  he  seemed  to  hear  the 
click  of  a  switch  extinguishing  it.  Now  he  was  walk- 
ing through  dark  and  empty  streets.  An  arc  light 
spun  a  moist  shaft  of  radiance  down  the  limitless,  silent 
asphalt.  Again  he  was  below  the  dead-line.  A  queer 
flavour  of  the  vanished  crowds  persisted  in  the  spots  of 
moisture  where  they  had  spat.  He  spelt  out  the  letters 
of  the  New  England's  illuminated  sign,  and  drew  him- 
self up  the  steep  stair  above  the  hardware  store. 

The  old  man's  mop  of  iron-grey  hair  was  bent  over 
a  dog-eared  register,  in  which  he  was  scrawling  by  the 
light  of  a  single  candle,  peering  over  the  bulging  lenses 
of  his  spectacles.  He  sat  in  a  cramped  cell  with  one 
window  which  gave  onto  the  entry.  He  looked  up 
through  this,  to  squint  suspiciously  at  Gail  over  the 
steel  rims  on  his  nose. 


44         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

"  Hello?  "  he  said  timidly,  dropping  his  pen.  "  You 
after  my  report?  I'm  making  it." 

As  in  a  feverish  dream,  Gail  scarcely  heard  him. 
Unconscious  of  the  flow  of  his  words,  Gail  questioned, 
entreated  the  fellow. 

His  watery,  flint-grey  eyes  softened.  His  lips 
twitched.  He  coughed  asthmatically. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  that's  them,"  he  conceded.  "  I  ex- 
pected someone  like  you  after  the  examiner.  I'd  rung 
up  Minker's.  You  the  husband  cmd  father?  " 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  He's  mine."  Gail's  voice  swelled  with 
pride  and  triumph. 

"  But  the  mother  wa'n't  your  wife  though  ?  "  he  asked 
shrewdly,  tilting  his  straw  hat  to  one  side.  "  You 
can't  tell  me  she  was  married.  She  hadn't  no  wedding 
ring." 

Gail  could  not  answer.  Iron  bands  pressed  across 
his  bosom.  He  stood  there,  shaking,  his  face  aflame. 

"  Well,  she  was  no  bad  woman.  She  never  give  us 
any  trouble,"  the  man  maundered  on.  "  Not  the  kind 
the  po-lice  is  running  out  of  the  best  hotels.  She  slaved 
her  arms  down  to  the  bone  after  quitting  Minker's,  get- 
ting up  at  daylight  to  scrub  out  saloons.  She  was  go- 
ing to  leave  the  kid  with  my  old  woman.  We'd  sort  of 
got  attached  to  him." 

Gail  clutched  the  little  window  sill. 

"  Young  man,  you  ought  to  ha'  done  your  best  by 
her,"  he  wheezed  on,  with  a  sudden  sternness.  "  Still, 
folks  like  me  can't  afford  a  judgment." 

"  Choke  it  off—"  Gail  gasped. 

Two  hot  wires  were  burning  under  his  eyes.  He  did 
not  know  that  they  were  tears  until  they  dropped  be- 
side the  register.  The  old  man  looked  at  him  critically 
a  moment,  and  then,  reaching  into  a  tin  letter-box,  pro* 


THE    CITY   OF   DREAMS  45 

duced  a  blue  bandanna,  and  shoved  it  toward  Gail.  He 
did  not  notice  it. 

"  Her  rent's  all  paid  up  to  the  first  of  the  month," 
said  the  fellow,  reassuringly. 

"How  is  he  — better?  For  God's  sake  tell  me!" 
cried  Gail,  at  last  subduing  the  heart-sapping  conflict 
of  his  despair  and  faith. 

"  Well,  now  he  ain't  — "  began  the  old  man,  sooth- 
ingly, choosing  his  words,  "  he  wa'n't  worse  for  long. 
And  didn't  suffer  much  that  we  could  see  up  to  this 
afternoon." 

"Suffer—?"  blazed  Gail. 

"  Hey  ?  "  He  turned  his  head  away.  Then,  as  if 
moved  by  a  saving  idea,  he  said,  urgently,  "  You  want 
to  go  up  to  the  room,  mightn't  you?  " 

"Go.  ...  Do  I?  ...  Good  God!  .  .  ,  Come  on!" 

"  You  can  spend  the  night  there,  if  you  want  to  resk 
it."  He  took  the  tin  candlestick,  emerged  from  the 
rear  of  his  coop.  "  And  I  won't  charge  you  nothing," 
he  added,  "  if  you'll  settle  a  small  bill  first." 

He  led  the  way  down  the  murky  corridor.  They 
climbed  one  sagging  back  stairway  after  another.  The 
man  paused  now  and  then  to  warn  laconically  about 
turns  and  steps.  Gail  stumbled  on  behind,  speechless, 
seizing  at  the  walls  to  keep  his  balance.  A  stinging, 
acrid  odour  met  his  nostrils,  but  meant  nothing  to  him. 

High  up  under  the  roof,  the  old  man  paused  before  a 
door  covered  with  blistered  brown  paint.  He  raised 
the  candle.  It  flared  against  the  figure  4  on  a  panel, 
which  he  quickly  pushed  open  —  into  darkness. 

"  In  here,"  he  said,  walking  across  the  room.  A  win- 
dow opened  close  on  the  sharp  pitch  of  a  roof,  dimly 
visible  in  the  starlight.  The  candle  shrank  to  a  blue 
point.  Placed  on  the  table,  it  shone  again. 


46         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Gail  stared  into  the  room,  rooted  to  the  threshold. 
A  tremulous  acid  wave  was  rising  through  all  his  limbs, 
piercing  his  diaphragm.  Far  off,  in  the  back  of  his 
head,  as  if  a  blow  had  struck  it,  arose  a  singing,  like  a 
field  of  croaking  frogs. 

"  It's  empty,"  he  stammered,  hoarsely.  "  You  don't 
mean  — ?  "  The  words  were  in  falsetto. 

"  They  had  to  clean  out  everything  tonight  to  fumi- 
gate. But  I  put  on  clean  bedding,  in  case  the  house 
was  crowded."  The  voice  wavered  remote  in  the  gloom. 
"  They  only  had  the  stuff  on  her  back,  and  what  little 
truck  belonged  to  the  youngster.  We  had  to  burn  'em 
all." 

Gail  felt  his  knees  collapsing.  But  he  had  no  sense 
of  sorrow,  felt  no  stab  of  pain.  Tears  were  as  far  from 
his  eyes  as  laughter.  He  was  mad,  with  a  destructive 
fury,  as  if  he  had  seen  his  boy  killed  before  him;  but 
powerless  to  stir  the  smallest  muscle. 

The  man  approached  him,  leaving  the  candle  on  the 
table.  As  he  crossed  the  door-sill,  passing  out  into  the 
hall  again,  he  cringed ;  but  it  was  not  until  Gail's  own 
arms  fell  weakly  before  him,  that  he  knew  how  he  had 
raised  his  hands  with  rigid  fingers  as  though  to  grip  the 
fellow  by  the  throat. 

"  Lemme  go.  You  don't  act  like  no  sane  father," 
panted  he.  "  I  be'n  leery  of  you  all  along.  So  about 
that  bill  I  mentioned  — " 

"Bill?"  echoed  Gail. 

"  Yes,  bill.  If  you  sleep  here  tonight,  you  got  to  let 
me  have  a  sum  on  account.  The  old  lady  knows  jest 
what  it  cost,  but  she's  tired  out  nursing  them,  and  in 
bed.  I'll  give  you  a  receipt,  if  you'll  come  downstairs." 
He  spoke  insistently  from  their  direction.  "  I  think 


THE    CITY    OF   DREAMS  47 

the  charge  was  ten  dollars,  but  it  was  the  cheapest  one 
we  could  contract  for  to  accommodate  them  both." 

"The  doctor—?" 

"  Noo  The  coffin  to  lay  them  out  in,  when  they're 
done  at  the  morgue.  It  come  about  three  hours  ago." 

Gail  ripped  out  a  ten  dollar  bill.  It  crackled  as  if 
it  were  on  fire.  He  felt  a  callous  hand  close  on  it. 

"  What  did  they  die  of?  "  moaned  Gail. 

"  Diphtheria,"  came  the  voice,  mingling  with  the 
clump  of  descending  footsteps.  "  What  did  you  think 
so  sudden,  that  they'd  have  to  burn  brimstone  fer?  .  .  . 
And  you  look  out  for  that  candle." 

With  a  quick  wave  of  muscular  strength  Gail 
plunged  into  the  room  and  hurled  the  door  closed.  Its 
slam  shook  the  whole  house.  In  the  return  of  his 
senses,  a  running  fire  had  burst  out  in  his  brain.  As 
from  a  great  distance,  he  sighted  the  Gail  Thain  of 
glorious  resolutions  and  a  new  life;  of  his  yearning  to 
merge,  to  suffer,  and  to  dream  with  the  surging  human- 
ity of  the  City  of  Dreams ;  saw  himself  a  shadowy  crea- 
ture with  his  head  bowed  before  a  vast  pageant  of 
painted  cardboard  and  tarnished  gilt.  He  beheld  the 
trail  of  his  bodily  immortality,  which  that  noon  had 
reached  endlessly  into  the  future,  swept  by  a  conflagra- 
tion, black  and  charred. 

He  stared  with  dry  eyes  and  parched,  open  lips,  diz- 
zily about  the  mean  room.  Not  a  token,  not  a  sign  or 
vestige  of  them.  There  were  only  the  clammy  sheets 
on  the  iron  bedstead,  the  bare  walls  grey  with  mildewed 
whitewash,  the  broken  table  covered  with  a  towel,  the 
little  distorting  mirror,  the  basin  and  its  thin  sliver 
of  mottled  soap,  the  faint,  keen,  sickening  odour  of  the 
sulphur. 


48         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

He  sank  upon  the  bed.  He  buried  his  head  in  his 
hands.  His  body  relaxed  and  a  chill  swept  him.  He 
relinquished  the  fight  to  hold  in  his  soul.  He  burst  into 
hot  tears  of  anguish. 

He  wallowed  down  into  the  bed.  That  poor  spark  of 
all  that  should  be  deathless  —  his  boy  —  had  suffered 
there.  He!  Had  he  not  left  the  faintest  aroma,  the 
thinnest  taste  ?  A  fierce  animal  craving  seized  Gail  to 
draw  back  within  himself,  through  his  pores,  into  his 
blood  vessels,  that  escaped  and  vanished  shadow  of  his 
own  existence.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  IV 

RORY  O'  THE  HEAD 


A  SILVERISH  light  filmed  the  dirty  window.  Gail  saw 
a  chimney  with  its  bricks  loose.  The  sun  was  shining 
outside,  and  rotted  shingles  hung  askew  on  the  steep 
slant  of  the  roof. 

He  had  fought  off  the  sleep  which  he  had  lapsed  into ; 
now  he  was  plunged  back  to  the  agony  he  dreaded. 
And  yet  he  had  slept,  from  exhaustion,  he  told  him- 
self. The  raw  daylight  tore  open  the  old  suffering. 
He  tried  to  stifle  it  by  conjuring  the  dream  through 
which  the  shingles  and  warped  chimney  had  dawned. 

He  had  been  alone  on  an  island  in  a  grey-green,  trans- 
lucent ocean,  cold  and  veiled  in  mists.  Wet  spruces 
mounted  toward  the  snowfields  of  abrupt  mountains  be- 
hind. But  he  had  been  neither  lonely  there,  nor  sick 
at  heart.  He  had  watched  the  swell  suck  and  sway  the 
kelp  upon  gaunt  rocks.  He  had  felt  that  he  was  free. 

Gail  swung  his  body  upright  upon  the  bed.  He 
ached  with  drowsiness,  but  not  until  now,  he  was  sure, 
had  he  been  fully  awake.  The  fierce,  full  pain  of  his 
loss  assailed  him.  He  quailed ;  yet  bore  it.  Somehow, 
guiltily,  could  it  be  dulling  his  soul? 

He  stole  out  of  the  room,  down  the  twisting  stairway. 
He  cowered  a  moment  in  the  corridor  before  passing 
the  little  office  window,  shrinking  from  sight  of  the 
spectacled  ghoul  who  had  thought  him  crazy.  Then, 

summoning  courage,  he  strode  past  with  head   erect. 

49 


50         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

The  glass  was  lowered,  but  he  discerned  behind  it  a 
large,  red-faced  woman  —  she  that  had  cared  for  the 
boy  and  bought  the  coffin,  likely  —  her  forehead  also 
mantled  with  grey  hair  in  untidy  wisps.  But  he  had 
no  impulse  to  speak  with  or  thank  her.  He  had  paid 
cash  for  her  last  kindness.  He  loathed  the  very  walls 
about  him. 

Death  to  Gail,  as  to  so  many  whom  life  has  failed, 
was  but  resignation,  relief,  a  material  nothing.  He  had 
no  heart  to  see  his  boy's  or  Martha's  body.  Even  the 
thought  of  them  under  the  unctuous  palms  and  dra- 
peries of  an  undertaker's,  or  in  a  morgue,  revolted  him. 
Always  in  the  face  of  defeat,  he  knew  that  Martha  would 
haunt  his  dreams ;  but  in  his  sentiment  could  be  no  mor- 
bidness. Only  the  living  and  their  thirsts  mattered 
now  for  him.  What  else  could  avail  anyone  who  faced 
the  rigour  and  the  ventures  of  the  Youngest  World? 

He  emerged  on  the  familiar  street,  in  the  early  morn- 
ing stir  of  the  multitude.  He  washed  in  the  lavatory 
of  a  saloon  on  the  corner,  and  ate  chopped  beef  and 
onions  at  the  nearest  coffee  stand. 

But  from  all  the  wreck,  his  aspiration  to  study  the 
goals  and  voids-in-heart  of  his  fellow-men  survived. 
He  would  build  his  future  upon  doing  this.  It  was  to 
be  a  faith,  the  compensation  for  his  chagrin  and  an- 
guish. And  its  guiding  force  was  that  power  in  Na- 
ture, ever  making  toward  the  good,  which  the  throngs 
here  below  the  dead-line  had  revealed.  A  nobleness 
and  glorious  responsibility  lay  in  the  mere  state  of  being 
alive.  Gail  felt  that  he  had  sunk  into  the  darkest  pit 
beneath  the  house  of  life,  and  that  henceforward  his 
struggle  must  be  upward. 

He  was  free !  He  was  without  the  smallest  tie  in  the 
world  of  blood  or  love.  Without  his  boy,  no  reason  re- 


RORY    0'    THE    HEAD  51 

mained  for  returning  to  Lena.  She  had  consented  to 
his  quitting  her  for  a  time,  surmised  that  it  would  be 
for  good.  She  had  been  right,  thanks  to  the  unspeak- 
able Madge.  He  was  indifferent  whether  she  went  to 
her  mother  in  Sacramento,  or  with  Madge.  He  had 
broken  forever  with  his  blasted  past. 

Freedom!  It  was  a  glowing  spark,  fed  by  circum- 
stance, dimmed  by  despair,  yet  fanned,  even  by  death, 
into  a  mounting  flame. 

He  was  ready  to  follow  the  slightest  impulse.  In  his 
detachment  from  any  care,  he  had  even  a  physical  sense 
of  lightness. 

n 

A  dray  piled  high  with  crates  of  pale  green  cabbages 
turned  down  a  street  leading  to  the  water-front.  At 
this  season  of  the  spring  rush  northward,  such  stuff 
was  bound,  Gail  knew,  for  Alaska,  starving  for  green 
food.  Aimlessly  he  followed  the  cart,  across  the  maze 
of  railway  tracks,  among  freight  cars,  and  came  out 
on  the  docks  by  the  cool  gloss  of  the  harbour.  A  jam 
of  loaded  trucks,  and  the  fitful  rattling  of  winches, 
marked  the  black  wooden  hull,  the  greasy  funnel  and 
slovenly  upper  body  of  a  steamship  —  Seward,  he  read 
on  her  stern  —  squatted  in  the  slip  beside  a  big  red 
wharf-house. 

He  sat  on  the  string-piece  of  the  empty  pier  next  the 
vessel,  and,  hanging  his  feet  over  the  water,  watched  a 
box-stall  jerked  up  into  midair  by  the  coughing  hoist. 
He  heard  the  thudding  hoofs  of  each  terrified  horse  in- 
side it,  lowered  over  the  ship's  forward  hatch.  Another 
winch  aft  began  to  dangle  steel  rails  on  high.  They 
banged  together  with  reverberations  as  of  gigantic  tun- 
ing forks.  Gazing  at  the  unseaworthy  hulk  with  her 


52         THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

sections  of  unpainted  rail  and  life-boat  davits  missing, 
Gail  wondered  in  what  honest  port  she  had  been  con- 
demned, only  to  be  floated  to  Seattle,  bought  by  the 
mushroom  company  that  poured  cement  over  her  leaky 
plates,  patched  her  rusty  boilers,  bribed  the  local  in- 
spectors, and  launched  her  in  the  golden  northern 
trade. 

Then  in  the  basin  between  him  and  the  Seward,  a  new 
sound  arose.  Steam  began  to  bubble  from  a  little  house 
on  a  raft,  where  a  pile-driver  undertook  to  whack  a 
new  trunk  of  fir,  replacing  one  gnawed  by  teredoes  in 
the  wharf  he  sat  on.  Close  by,  a  stumpy,  vigorous  man 
was  hauling  on  a  wire  cable.  He  threw  it  around  a 
stanchion,  and  once  having  it  fast,  grunted,  all  but 
tumbling  backward  upon  Gail. 

"  Bless  ye,  man,  I  never  seen  ye !  "  he  exclaimed,  re- 
gaining his  balance  and  mopping  his  wide  brow  with  a 
grimy  bandanna. 

His  hair  grew  thin  and  frizzled  on  a  round,  bullet 
head.  He  was  not  young,  but  his  lined  face  did  not 
look  old,  although  he  had  the  bowed  aspect  of  a  man 
whose  lifetime  had  been  weighted  and  consumed  with 
bodily  labour.  As  he  lingered  in  his  oily  brown  over- 
alls, a  freshness  in  the  curve  of  his  mouth,  in  the  gleam 
of  his  clear,  pale  eyes,  gave  to  his  panting  dejection  an 
air  of  strength  and  valour  dissipated  by  some  defect  of 
will. 

He  contemplated  Gail  with  a  directness  bound  to 
break  into  speech. 

"  As  a  labouring  man,  I  ask  ye,"  he  broke  out  ear- 
nestly, in  a  slight  brogue.  "  What  work  can  I  get  less 
ha'sh  than  this?  It's  just  a-wearing  of  me  out.  I  be'n 
at  the  likes  of  it  thirty  years,  only  a-helping  others, 
doing  the  dog's  part  of  each  job,  in  ev'ry  state  acrost 


RORYO'    THE    HEAD  53 

this  continent,  since  I  landed  in  Halifax.  What's  to 
be  the  end  of  it  ?  I'm  no  farther  on,  no  better  off,  than 
whin  I  begun.  What  am  I  a-living  for,  son?  " 

Gail  was  stirred  by  the  vehemence  with  which  the  man 
confronted  his  own  problems.  But  he  had  never  reck- 
oned upon  having  to  give  counsel.  He  had  thought 
himself  the  party  to  question  thus.  A  diffidence  beset 
him.  He  could  not  reply,  and  the  Irishman  went  on, 
tremulously : 

"  I  come  to  the  Coast  for  the  better  wages  and  living 
it  offered.  And  I  find  it's  harder  for  a  man  to  shift 
here.  The  Unions  is  ha'sher.  Yer  sized  up  and  kicked 
aside  quicker.  The  sup'rintindints  eye  yer  worth 
crooler.  Ye  got  to  be  younger,  smarter,  an'  take  bigger 
gambles."  His  eyes  drooped.  "  And  this  country  all 
makes  a  man  more  res'less." 

"What  sort  of  work — ? "  floundered  Gail,  self- 
absorbed. 

"  All  I  ask  is  bread,  bread,  sir !  "  He  threw  out  his 
arms.  "  And  a  qui't  place  to  rest  my  bones  in  whin 
I'm  old." 

Gail  murmured  something  about  an  Indian  reserva- 
tion being  lately  thrown  open  to  settlement ;  about  tak- 
ing up  a  homestead. 

The  fellow  laughed  mockingly.  "  'Tis  a  lie  whin 
they  say  any  free  lands  is  left.  I've  scoured  all  this 
western  country,  and  if  the'  was,  what  show  'ud  I  have? 
Hundreds  in  line,  for  days  and  nights,  ahead  of  me  at 
the  land  office,  and  it  fixed  by  the  capitalists  to  get 
them  the  rich  sections  and  us  chunks  of  lavey  desert. 
That's  frontier  living  nowadays.  That's  consarvation 
for  the  public.  All  this  new  country's  owned  by  them 
big  guns.  An'  our  job  is  to  sweat  out  our  souls  with 
pick  or  plough,  shapin'  it  for  comforts  for  hawgs  to 


54         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

wallow  in."  He  jabbed  a  finger  at  the  steam-flecked 
skyscrapers  of  the  city.  "  Have  ye  never  seen  their 
women-folks  ridin'  straddle-legged,  shootin'  around  in 
autymobiles,  their  sons  and  husbands  drunk  and 
gamblin?  " 

Gail  nodded,  feelingly;  while  in  the  pause  the  attest- 
ing roar  of  Seattle,  living  so  avidly  in  the  vainglorious 
present,  swept  across  her  swarming  markets  and  grimy 
yards.  At  least,  the  man  epitomised  his  sympathy  of 
the  past  evening  for  the  feverish  street  crowds.  Young 
as  was  the  complex  frontier,  its  fruit  was  rank,  exotic, 
the  while  the  roots  of  its  life  and  opulence  decayed. 

"  And  I  ain't  no  socialist,  ayther,"  added  the  other. 
"  I'm  too  honest  with  meself.  Only  give  me  the  chanst 
to  steal  them  stock  operators  and  tide-land  dealers  has, 
and  I'd  take  more  than  thim,  and  make  a  cleaner  get- 
away." « 

"  Nor  I,"  agreed  Gail,  vaguely ;  for  as  he  tried  to 
weigh  the  fellow's  complaint,  his  eyes  had  again  fallen 
on  the  Seward. 

"  How  about  Alaska,"  he  asked,  "  for  a  new  coun- 
try? " 

"Ah,  there's  the  land,  boy!"  The  seamed  face 
brightened.  "  There  y'are  a-speaking.  Alasky  ain't 
all  gobbled  up  yet  by  them  thrusts,  but  will  be.  Meself, 
I  was  takin'  an  outfit  to  St.  Michael's  on  the  rush  last 
year.  But  the  blackguard  I  was  grubstaked  by  welched 
on  me.  I  got  here  too  late.  It's  always  too  late  with 
me."  He  shook  his  head,  dolefully.  "  There  —  I've 
told  ye  what  I  am,"  he  ended.  "  And  it's  been  the  curse 
o'  me.  I'm  too  much  a  wand'ring  man.  I've  always 
wanted  to  see  and  know  the  things  that  ain't  property- 
like,  and  money  couldn't  buy  —  the  hearty,  shiftin' 
things  in  the  men  along  the  trails." 


RORY   0*   THE    HEAD  55 

Gail  started.  "What  —  things?"  he  gaped,  divin- 
ingly. 

"  Oh  —  nothing  I  c'd  tell  ye,  or  ye  understand."  A 
dreamy  hardness  entered  his  voice.  "  But  I've  ever 
thought  that  jest  to  move  aroun'  and  see  the  changin' 
worrld,  and  hear  men  talk  of  their  victhries  and  dissy- 
pintments,  is  enough  to  get  outen  life.  'Tis  so  warm 
and  true,  so  powerful  and  hejous  at  times,  it  seems  like 
your  thinkin'  of  it  niver  can  die." 

An  intangible  glow  bathed  and  transformed  his  pres- 
ence. His  lips  twitched,  and  he  ran  a  hand  backward 
through  his  scant  hair,  like  one  facing  an  expectation. 

What  sort  of  a  thirst  was  this,  thought  Gail — to 
wander  for  its  own  sake?  .  .  .  Beside  the  goal  of  father- 
hood !  .  .  . 

"  Still  —  some  day  you've  got  to  die,"  said  Gail, 
bewildered,  his  eyes  once  more  resting  on  the  scarred 
steamer.  "  So  what's  the  use,  without  some  brain 
sprung  from  you,  continuing.  .  .  ." 

"  Have  ye?  "  retorted  the  Irishman,  in  spirited  doubt. 
"  I  know  countrymen  o'  mine  that  says  how  the  dreams 
and  images  of  things  lives  on  forever  by  theirselves.  .  .  . 
But  going  my  way  has  kind  of  weakened  me,"  he  re- 
laxed. "  And  now  I'm  gettin'  old." 

Yet  the  man  kept  looking  at  him,  with  a  sort  of  se- 
cretive triumph  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  Only 
the  more  perplexed,  Gail  asked  himself:  Were  the  mul- 
titudes' infinite  aims  less  simple  than  he  had  conceived? 
Was  the  outpouring  of  his  heart  to  them  last  night  in 
the  vortex  of  the  City  of  Dreams  but  the  vain,  extrav- 
agant flower  of  his  momentary  exaltation?  Perhaps 
the  wisdom  that  he  wanted  from  mankind  was  not  to  be 
compassed  in  a  few  years'  seeking,  but  must  embrace 
the  lessons  and  the  meanings  of  a  lifetime. 


56         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"I'm  going  to  Alaska,"  blurted  Gail.  "That's 
where  I'm  bound !  " 

"  Takin'  a  chanst  in  that  boneyard  hulk  yonder?  It 
'ud  be  safer  to  resk  the  plains  with  crazy  Sioux  in  the 
old-time  prairie  schooners,  than  on  one  o'  them  Alasky 
liners." 

Gail's  hand  had  wandered  to  his  pocket,  and  touched 
the  remaining  ten  dollar  bill.  That  would  not  pay  his 
fare  to  the  North.  He  shook  his  head,  piqued  by  the 
conceit  of  his  sudden  whim. 

"  And  ye  oughtn't  to  go  there,"  continued  the  Irish- 
man. "  To  a  land  like  Alasky,  without  yer  heart's  in 
the  trip,  and  ye've  long  dreamed  on  it." 

"  Heart !  "  echoed  Gail,  impulsively.  "  I  guess  mine 
is  dead." 

The  fellow  took  an  estimating  step  backward;  then, 
returning,  he  proffered  gently : 

"A  turr'ble  thing  the  heart  is,  ain't  it,  sir?  Seems 
like  she  must  be  in  everything  we  do,  not  to  fail."  He 
coughed  with  a  deliberate  unction;  and  averted  though 
Gail's  eyes  and  senses  were,  he  was  aware  that  the  man 
had  altered  his  mood. 

"  But  the  heart,  eh—?  "  repeated  he.  "  The  heart 
can't  feed  us.  You  must  'a*  been  in  love  or  mar- 
ried." 

"I  was  —  both,"  Gail  answered,  yet  blind  to  the 
other's  design.  "  But  they  weren't  the  same.  If 
you've  never  been  in  love,  nor  all  at  once  a  father — " 
his  voice  caught. 

"I?  The  likes  o'  me?"  chuckled  the  Irishman. 
"  I've  fed  enough  on  sorrows,  but  they've  never  had  the 
taste  o'  solid  grub." 

Gail  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  He  wrenched  him- 
self away  with  a  quick  shame,  reaction  to  his  confession ; 


RORYO'THEHEAD  57 

and  then,  instantly,  suspicion.  So:  the  man's  easy 
sympathy,  his  guise  as  wanderer  and  dreamer,  was  but 
the  invidious  grease  on  an  itching  palm.  Fooled,  at 
the  outset  of  his  search  among  men !  But  Gail  subdued 
a  flare  of  his  old  callousness,  to  find  himself  without  the 
least  resentment  or  cynical  disgust;  and  the  Irishman's 
next  words,  in  his  first  strain,  made  Gail  sure  that  he 
did  the  fellow  an  injustice. 

m 

"  Man,  then,  I  guess  we're  both  doomed  to  the  same 
limbo,"  he  declared.  "  To  keep  a-goin',  and  a-workin', 
and  a-wanderin',  and  a-learnin'.  Jest  holdin'  the  breath 
in  our  mouths,  and  the  fog  o'  death  outen  our  throats." 
He  stopped  short,  to  add  gravely,  as  if  powerfully 
moved  by  the  thought,  "  Like  Rory  o'  the  Head.  Yes, 
like  oul  Rory." 

"Who  was  he?"  invited  Gail,  eagerly.  "An  Irish 
hero  out  of  some  myth?  " 

The  other  stiffened  and  scrutinised  him.  "  Ye  don't 
know  o'  him?  Well,  well!  Then  I  guess  ye  ain't  no 
Irishman,"  he  added  with  an  astonished  regret,  as  if  all 
his  confidences  had  been  based  on  such  an  assumption ; 
and  turning  his  back,  he  started  walking  off  toward  the 
pile-driver. 

"Hi!  Come  back!"  called  Gail,  with  twinkling 
eyes.  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  and  as  the  wastrel, 
obeying,  neared  him,  Gail  thrust  the  ten  dollar  bill  into 
his  horny  hand.  He  accepted  it,  gravely,  silent,  his 
head  bowed,  and  too  overcome  to  mumble  more  than  a 
perfunctory  thanks,  the  while  he  folded  the  note  into  a 
minute  oblong.  Then,  escaping  again  up  the  pier,  he 
called  back,  "  And  if  y'are  sailing  in  that  floating 
coffin,  why  ain't  ye  packed  yer  duffle  and  stuff  aboard 


88         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

her  now  ?  " —  and  climbed  down  a  little  ladder  to  his 
raft. 

"  Rory  o'  the  Head,"  muttered  Gail,  grasping  from 
the  very  sound  of  the  name,  in  the  intensity  and  spirit 
of  his  friend,  however  insincere,  what  sort  of  a  phantom, 
of  a  symbol  for  his  own  future,  Rory  might  be. 

And  often  in  the  months  to  come,  thought  of  that 
name  would  vividly  recall  this  moment  and  its  scene: 
The  heat  shimmering  over  the  city  in  this  brief  season 
of  dust  and  sunlight;  the  growl  of  steam-shovels  eat- 
ing into  her  steep  hills ;  the  tarry  coal-smoke  poised  in 
thin  scarf-like  layers  over  the  chill  greyness  of  the 
Sound;  the  pile-driver  pausing,  rattling,  thudding; 
striking  dock-hands  with  felt  hats  over  their  faces  ly- 
ing asleep  in  the  sun ;  the  patter  of  hammers  aboard  the 
loading  Seward,  building  corrals  for  steers  and  sheep 
to  feed  the  mysterious  North.  And  through  the  haze 
yonder,  snow  in  the  fantastic  crests  of  the  Olympic 
peaks,  like  some  malleable  white  metal ;  behind  which  — 
the  hidden  horizon,  the  ocean,  and  unimaginably  far, 
ever  the  magic  North. 

Go  to  Alaska.  Why  not?  But  again  the  jingle  in 
his  pocket,  just  sixty-three  cents,  brought  a  blear 
smile  to  Gail's  face.  Still,  he  might  find  work  aboard 
the  steamer,  as  a  deck-hand  or  waiter.  He  had  never 
seen  the  ocean.  All  at  once  his  temerity  took  on  the 
aspect  of  a  providence.  He  was  filled  with  an  immense 
loathing  for  the  city.  To-day  the  very  might  of  its 
destiny  oppressed  him.  It  was  the  City  of  Dreams, 
but  its  dream  was  vain.  Its  wealth  was  satanic;  its 
labour  slavery.  Rising  giantess  that  Seattle  was,  her 
young  sinews  were  wasting,  in  the  decimation  of  for- 
ests, salmon  —  sons.  She  bought  brawn  and  youth  like 


RORYO'    THE    HEAD  59 

so  much  cattle,  herded  it  upon  the  unseaworthy  ark 
over  there.  She  filled  strong  heads  and  hearts  with 
the  lure  of  the  golden  tundra,  and  sold  them  adulterated 
flour,  rotten  sledge  harness.  The  old  shoulder-to- 
shoulder  spirit  of  pioneering  was  dead.  His  wander- 
ing friend  had  been  right.  There  were  masters  and 
slaves  where  all  had  once  been  fighters.  The  bond  of 
a  manhood  defence  against  wolf  and  Indian  was  dead. 
Discovery  had  lost  its  thrill.  A  grubstake  was  only  a 
hand-out  on  the  bread-line  of  adventure. 

Gail  could  not  remember  having  ever  before  so  felt 
the  injustice  of  existence  toward  anyone  but  himself. 
And  his  suffering  had  wrought  the  change !  Yesterday 
he  had  exalted  the  multitude  in  vague  fantasies  upon 
the  backs  of  his  eyelids ;  to-day  they  opened  against 
the  grinding  kaleidoscope  of  life. 

Yet  fresh  hordes  kept  coming  westward,  to  toil  and 
spend.  The  instinct  to  subdue  and  win  from  heartless 
Nature  was  unquenchable,  if  heroic  no  more.  And  if 
the  City  of  Dreams  was  a  fool's  paradise,  must  there 
not  be  a  brave  and  honest  realm  beyond,  a  world  yet 
younger?  For  all  men  whom  Seattle  cheated  could  not 
be  her  pawns,  pledged  to  stake  placers  under  powers  of 
attorney,  to  lay  rails  upon  glaciers  in  order  to  sell 
stock.  Surely  argonauts  still  left  for  Alaska  with  their 
own  dreams  and  grubstakes.  Some  resistless,  self-con- 
cealing, unfathomable  spell  lurked  in  the  North.  Its 
glamour  did  not  tarnish  in  the  breath  of  tragedy,  or 
failure,  or  deceit.  Simple,  savage,  it  might  bare  the 
wisdom  in  men's  hearts,  or  be  the  kingdom  of  primordial 
thirsts. 

Gail  thrilled  to  the  ache  of  a  sudden  yearning.  Why, 
that  morning  he  had  been  in  Alaska  in  his  dream! 


60         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

IV 

A  whistle  rasped  through  the  sunlight.  The  pile- 
driver,  the  winches,  the  harsh  voices  of  deck-hands  died 
away.  Noon.  And  then  a  hoarse  tremolo  from  the 
funnel  across  the  basin  warned  that  the  Seivard  was 
sailing. 

Gail  was  running  up  the  dock.  He  dodged  through 
the  clutter  of  trucks,  into  the  red  wharf-house.  Bearded 
men  in  long  miners'  boots,  lean,  shaven  faces  with  far- 
gazing  eyes,  backs  bowed  under  dunnage  bags,  streamed 
on  with  him.  All  around  against  the  walls  were  piled 
bags  of  flour,  rolls  of  tar  roofing,  crates  of  hardware, 
onions,  condensed  milk.  And  over  each  heap  stencilled 
signs  bore  remote,  alluring  names:  Iliuliuk,  Tyonek, 
Androfski,  Chigmit.  At  the  foot  of  the  ship's  gang- 
way, a  pinched-face  little  man  in  a  uniform  was  talk- 
ing to  two  flashy  women,  who  laughed  with  an  exag- 
gerated shrillness.  He  wore  a  soiled  and  collarless 
boiled  shirt,  and  "  steward "  was  lettered  on  his  cap. 

Gail  spoke,  and  drew  him  aside.  The  steward  lis- 
tened impatiently,  chewing  a  tooth-pick. 

"  Waiter  ?  You  mean  you  want  to  be  a  flunky,"  he 
snapped,  spitting.  "  D'you  belong  to  the  Union?" 

Gail  hesitated  that  he  did  not. 

"  Then  I  can't  take  you.  The  Union  holds  us  up 
on  this  coast  to  employ  all  their  bums  and  dope-fiends. 
Two  of  my  force  are  up  on  Railroad  Avenue  drunk 
now."  But  he  seemed  to  thaw  with  the  confidence. 
"  You  got  an  outfit?  Must  have  a  white  jacket.  And 
mind,  I'm  only  taking  a  chance  on  your  decent  looks," 
he  reversed  himself,  aggressively.  "  I  guess  I  can  fit 
you  out.  So  hustle  now !  " 


RORYO'    THE    HEAD  61 

Not  to  give  him  time  to  change  his  mind,  Gail  pushed 
away  to  the  deck,  through  the  crowd  filing  ashore. 
He  walked  aft  to  the  rudder-post,  and  sat  on  a  round 
life-buoy  by  a  pile  of  potato  sacks.  Whole  dripping 
sides  of  beef  and  scalded  hogs  dangled  from  hooks  over- 
head. Beside  him,  a  tall  gaunt  youth  with  leathery 
cheeks  specked  by  moles,  and  in  a  white  jacket,  stood 
rolling  wheat-paper  cigarettes,  but  throwing  each  away 
after  a  few  puffs.  He  kept  muttering  to  himself, 
glancing  at  Gail  with  a  sort  of  resentful  curiosity. 
And  then  the  voices  calling  good-byes  all  around  re- 
ceded far  away  within  Gail's  ears. 

"  Shake  a  leg,  old  girl ! "  exclaimed  the  pale  youth. 

Gail  peered  toward  the  gangway.  Up  it  was  hurry- 
ing the  lithe  figure  of  a  young  woman,  her  head  bent 
forward  at  a  striking,  resolute  angle.  She  wore  a 
tight  brown,  tailored  jacket  with  a  martin-skin  fast- 
ened at  her  throat  by  a  nickel  chain,  a  toque  hat  with 
a  flowing  blue  veil,  which  was  lifted. 

Instantly  Gail  was  on  his  feet;  for  on  reaching  the 
deck  she  had  stopped  abruptly,  and  was  gazing  toward 
him.  Her  eyes  penetrated  him,  and  as  he  returned  the 
look,  he  saw  that  they  were  sharp  and  yellow,  gleaming 
with  a  peculiar,  deliberate  brightness. 

A  warmth,  as  of  some  liquid,  invaded  unwelcomely 
the  region  of  his  heart.  And  then,  with  a  toss  of  her 
fine  head,  as  if  he  had  been  mistaken  for  a  friend,  the 
girl  vanished  into  the  chattering  crowd  along  the  rail. 
But  more  than  an  image  of  her  remained  fixed  in  Gail ; 
a  presence,  also,  a  tangibility.  She  reminded  him  of 
something  —  some  animal  —  ah !  —  a  cougar,  the 
mountain  lion ;  yet  she  had  none  of  its  cat-like  furtive- 
ness.  She  suggested,  though  at  once  he  downed  the 
thought,  Martha ;  what  Martha  might  have  become 


62         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

if  stimulated  by  comforts  and  affection;  and  yet  more 
restless,  alert,  stronger  and  higher-strung. 

Gail  was  certain  that  she  had  caught  his  eye,  had 
thrilled  quickly  to  his  reading  of  her.  An  hour  ago, 
he  would  have  taken  oath  that  no  woman  could  have  so 
aroused  him.  But  that  tawny  fire  in  her  eyes,  piercing 
him  so  wisely!  It  mingled  alike  solicitude,  self-con- 
fidence, and  then  repudiation.  .  .  .  She  was  to  be 
aboard  this  ramshackle  hulk  with  him,  she  a  passenger, 
he  a  waiter.  More  than  his  male,  protective  instinct 
boldy  awoke,  but  only  that  an  ironic  misdoubt  should 
blur  the  dream.  .  .  . 

What  might  not  be  her  quest  in  the  North?  Women 
of  all  sorts,  especially  from  Occidental  Avenue,  went  to 
Alaska.  She  had  avowedly  impressed  herself  upon  him. 
A  professional  wile?  And  there  was  the  pallid  flunky's 
taunt. 


The  short  blares  sounded  for  shoving  off.  The 
Seward's  stern  was  swinging  into  the  stream.  A  thick 
cable  flopped  off  into  the  water.  A  quickening  inti- 
macy loosed  itself  between  the  throngs  aboard  and 
ashore;  yet  few  Christian  names  echoed  in  the  fare- 
wells. An  open-mouthed  tension  pervaded,  an  air  of 
impersonal  hope  and  apprehension  for  destinies  in  a 
portentous  land.  An  indistinct  chorus  was  cast  from 
dock  to  ship,  from  ship  to  receding  dock,  as  of  warnings, 
confidences,  which  men  and  women  had  not  the  courage 
to  voice  before  this  twinge  of  severance.  Gail's  pulses 
quickened,  deepened,  in  response  to  all  this  variety  and 
throb. 

A  heavily-built,  sleek  man  in  a  large  plaid  cap,  with 
ivory  charms  and  a  bulky  watch-chain  across  his 


RORY   0'    THE    HEAD  63 

stomach,  elbowed  a  way  to  the  side.  He  hurled  a  silver 
dollar  to  a  shy,  tired  little  woman  dressed  in  black  and 
a  bonnet  trimmed  with  cherries.  "  That's  for  luck, 
mother,"  he  shouted,  boyishly.  "  I  can  afford  it." 
But  the  dollar  hit  the  string-piece  and  tumbled  into 
the  harbour. 

They  were  off.  Gail  tingled  all  over  his  body  with 
an  acute  sense  of  valour,  of  liberation,  almost  of  happi- 
ness. Years  seemed  to  have  passed  since  he  had  fol- 
lowed those  crates  of  cabbages.  Then  he  looked 
inboard,  and  his  gaze  fell  upon  the  line  of  high-booted, 
set-eyed  men  pressed  to  the  rail,  who  had  neither 
stirred  nor  spoken  during  all  the  parting. 


CHAPTER  V 

BOB  SNOWDEN 


"HERE,  sniff  up,"  said  a  voice  from  the  darkness  in 
the  under  bunk.  "  One  with  me  before  we  go  above. 
A  man  needs  the  brace  to  get  away  with  all  the  hot  air 
you  hear  in  that  smoking-room." 

A  thin  hand,  white  and  almost  womanly,  was  thrust 
upon  Gail's  grimy  blanket  from  below.  It  grasped  a 
tiny  round  box,  filled  with  a  glistening  powder,  and  was 
the  hand  of  the  mole-marked  flunky  of  Gail's  first  mo- 
ments aboard  the  Seward.  His  name  was  Rex  Murkid, 
and  the  two  were  quartered  in  a  blind  cell  off  the  for- 
ward freight  hold,  in  an  atmosphere  of  bilge  water  and 
musty  flour. 

Rex,  aged  nineteen,  had  served  two  years  for  theft 
in  an  Oregon  reform  school,  which  accounted  for  his 
habit  of  "  blowing  his  burners  "  with  cocaine.  The 
boy  had  a  dramatic  ambition  to  save  a  woman's  life 
some  day  in  a  shipwreck,  or  otherwise.  This  was  as 
far  as  Gail  could  read  his  only  friend  on  board.  Re- 
treating to  their  bunks  each  evening,  after  washing 
dishes  in  the  steamy,  stale-food  odours  of  the  pantry, 
and  as  Gail  smoked,  Rex  exalted  himself  with  the  drug. 
Then  he  lapsed  from  his  grudge-bearing  outlook  upon 
life,  and  would  drift  into  the  inconclusive  talk  of  youth 
in  the  toils  of  such  a  vice,  telling  of  his  boyhood  as  a 
newsagent  along  the  Columbia  River.  At  work  with 
Gail  in  the  dining-room,  he  stood  between  him  and  the 


BOBSNOWDEN  65 

other  flunkies,  who  treated  Gail  as  if  his  presence  were 
an  affront  to  them.  They  all  bunked  aft,  and  were 
mostly  oldish,  wizened  little  men  with  two  weeks'  stubby 
beards,  and  the  impatient,  grumbling  air  of  drunkards 
denied  their  whisky. 

Three  times  a  day,  waiting  for  Rex  to  boom  the  meal- 
gong  over  the  ship,  these  derelicts  stood  among  the 
long  tables  laid  out  with  chow-chow  and  condensed 
milk  (watered  in  pitchers),  shouting  coarse  stories  to 
one  another,  vilifying  the  men  they  served,  sneering 
at  any  virtue  in  the  women.  Then,  with  the  rush  of 
passengers  below,  they  plunged  to  work  with  a  sudden 
sullenness,  struggled  at  the  serving-window,  shouting 
their  orders  in  jargon;  grabbed  the  portions  served  by 
the  two  Chinese  cooks,  piling  them  dexterously  on  their 
arms.  They  had  an  especial,  racial  grudge  against  the 
Chinamen,  assuming  that  all  they  cooked  was  befouled, 
that  they  were  outcast  interlopers  who  took  the  bread 
from  the  mouths  of  white  men. 

They  served  the  food  with  ostentation.  The  officers 
ignored  their  insolence  when  passengers  complained  of 
mistakes.  Afterwards,  they  ate  at  the  same  tables, 
parrying  among  themselves  boasts  about  having  "  in- 
terests," owning  claims  and  "  propositions "  in  the 
North.  Gail  gathered  that  such  talk  was  only  a  mock- 
ing parody  of  what  they  had  overheard  from  the  pas- 
sengers. A  loose-lipped  young  giant  with  rat  teeth 
named  Pritchard,  who  had  been  an  engineer's  draughts- 
man until  the  booze  enslaved  him,  led  at  this.  He  was 
the  boss  of  them  all,  as  they  travelled  back  and  forth 
between  Seattle  and  Alaska,  at  generous  wages  inflated 
with  tips,  which  were  solicited  by  avid  gallantries 
and  accepted  roughly  as  tribute.  Their  sole  topics  of 
serious  talk  concerned  these  tips,  and  the  details  of  their 


66         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

souses  in  port  at  the  end  of  each  run.  They  told  in 
whispers  of  narrow  escapes,  when  they  had  returned 
aboard  drunk,  from  being  fired  by  the  abrupt  steward, 
whose  boisterous  manner,  empty  though  it  was,  easily 
cowed  such  men  as  they.  Since  he  searched  their  dun- 
nage for  whisky  before  going  to  sea,  they  would  men- 
tion the  amounts  they  could  swallow  with  reminiscent 
unction  and  a  dry-lipped  anticipation. 

Gail  waited  on  the  end  of  the  middle  table,  where 
Mitchell,  the  stout  purser,  ate.  There  a  slim  Danish 
nurse  with  a  cowlicky  bang,  bound  for  the  Valdez  hos- 
pital, sat  next  the  rotund  man  who  had  thrown  the 
dollar  overboard  —  a  railroad  "  magnate  "  named  Kil- 
gour.  Opposite  them  were  a  fresh-faced  young  butcher 
from  Butte,  going  North  on  an  oil-well  deal  into  which 
he  had  sunk  his  savings,  and  a  depressed,  untidy  woman 
with  two  little  girls  dressed  in  red  flannel,  who  was  the 
wife  of  a  foreman  in  a  gold  quartz  mine  on  the  Kenai 
Peninsula. 

Although  this  was  the  fourth  day  out,  Gail  had  not 
once  caught  sight  of  the  girl  in  the  blue  veil.  Pritch- 
ard  took  food  to  her  room  at  irregular  hours,  and 
while  he  insinuated  evil  in  all  the  other  women  he  served, 
he  never  referred  to  her  except  as  his  "  sea-sick  dame." 
This  filled  Gail  with  a  vague  jealousy,  stimulated  his 
concern  for  her,  and  caused  Rex's  slur  on  seeing  her 
come  aboard  to  rankle  in  him  ever  more  deeply. 


Gail  received  the  little  box  from  the  youth's  hand. 
Taking  a  pinch  of  the  powder,  he  leaned  forward  and 
scattered  it  between  his  mattress  and  the  bulkhead. 
Then  he  passed  him  back  the  drug,  saying,  "  I'm 
going  easy  this  time.  That  last  dose  was  pretty  stiff 


BOBSNOWDEN  67 

for  a  man  not  used  to  it."  He  considered  that  by  this 
deceit  he  avoided  wounding  Rex's  generosity.  Admon- 
ition for  the  habit  never  occurred  to  him. 

"  Get  the  hang.  You  will  soon  enough,"  said  Rex. 
"  Ah !  .  .  ."  The  syllable  of  ecstasy  mingled  with  the 
sound  of  his  nose  snuffling  the  powder.  "  Come  on," 
he  cried  lightly,  springing  from  the  bunk;  and  Gail 
followed,  groping  through  the  dank,  freight-cluttered 
gloom,  to  the  dining-room  door.  "  That  hound  Mit- 
chell can't  spot  us  to-night,"  said  the  boy,  as  they 
gained  the  sloppy  deck.  "  He's  getting  his  claws 
trimmed  by  that  rounder  from  Spokane,  up  in  her 
room."  The  purser  barred  flunkies  from  the  smoking- 
room,  but  they  defied  his  rule  by  sneaking  into  its 
stuffy  warmth  aft  of  the  Social  Hall,  and  pretending 
to  sleep  on  one  of  the  hard  settees.  Rex  always  looked 
upon  this  as  a  stirring  episode. 

A  raw  blast  from  the  veiled,  stupendous  alps  of  the 
St.  Elias  range  across  the  Fairweather  Grounds  kept 
the  old  Seward  pitching  mercilessly  in  the  icy  fog  and 
drizzle  of  the  North  Pacific,  racking  her  loose  seams, 
her  under-powered  machinery  groaning.  Gail  clutched 
along  the  rail,  and  reaching  the  Social  Hall  windows, 
peered  inside,  as  he  always  did  in  passing  them.  And 
now  he  caught  his  breath.  This  time  she  was  there! 
She  sat  in  a  loose,  plum-coloured  dress  at  a  card-tat)le 
in  the  corner  by  the  piano,  playing  patience.  The 
Danish  nurse  lolled  beside  her,  holding  a  paper  novel 
but  watching  the  game. 

Gail  shrank  from  the  pane,  but  he  could  not  stop 
gazing  at  her,  studying  her.  The  same  blue  veil 
swathed  her  bold  forehead  bent  over  the  cards.  He 
could  catch  the  gleam  in  her  tawny  eyes,  acute,  ad- 
venturous, contrasting  with  the  lax  and  petulant  gaze 


68         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

of  the  nurse.  Her  oval  features  seemed  more  pallid, 
her  nose  and  chin  sharper.  But  all  resemblance  to 
Martha  had  vanished.  Yet  no  sooner  had  it  relieved 
him  to  decide  that,  than  he  was  disturbed  by  how  his 
inner  image  of  Martha  dimmed  in  her  presence. 

"  Eyes  out-board,  there.  Ain't  you  coming?  "  shouted 
Rex,  his  voice  smothered  by  the  storm. 

But  she  had  quickly  swept  up  her  cards,  and  now 
arose,  shuffling  them.  A  man  was  approaching  her. 
He  held  a  small  bottle  in  his  right  hand,  and  walked 
with  an  easy,  athletic  swing.  Gail  recognised  him  as 
the  "  dude  "  (that  was  the  pantry's  epithet)  with  the 
straw-coloured,  curly  hair  and  very  dark  blue  eyes, 
who  sat  at  the  Norwegian  skipper's  right  at  meals  and 
guffawed  at  his  elaborate,  childish  humour ;  who  usually 
smoked  a  briar  pipe,  but  never  came  into  the  smoking- 
room.  Pritchard  had  mentioned  his  business  in  Alaska, 
but  for  the  moment  Gail  could  not  recall  it. 

The  man  began  to  talk.  The  muscles  of  his  clean, 
angular  jaw  tightened  and  quivered.  He  stood  there 
in  baggy  corduroy  knickerbockers,  his  knees  sagging 
slightly,  and  flushed  with  a  smile.  At  length  the 
woman,  as  if  ending  a  jocose  protest,  grasped  the  phial 
from  his  outstretched  arm,  burst  into  laughter.  It 
penetrated  the  window,  ringing  and  high-pitched,  but 
also  hearty,  wholesome.  She  began  to  speak,  and  de- 
cisively. 

Gail  could  no  longer  contain  himself.  What  were 
they  two  saying?  He  stole  to  the  saloon  door,  pushed 
it  open.  The  man  was  addressing  her ;  and  at  the  word 
which  Gail  caught  on  the  out-pouring,  humid  draught, 
he  let  the  door  bang  to,  chilled  instinctively. 

"Lamar.  .  .  ."     It  was  that. 

Where,  ages  gone,  had  he  heard  the  name?     Ah  — 


BOBSNOWDEN  69 

he  remembered.  In  his  mountain  cabin,  from  Madge 
Arnold.  One  of  her  Wilbur's  interests  was  with  Lamar, 
the  copper  king  up  North. 

Back  at  the  window,  the  man  had  gone.  The  nurse 
was  staring  open-mouthed  at  the  blue  veil,  while  its 
wearer,  still  gaily  laughing,  tucked  the  bottle  into 
her  shirt-waist.  Yet  Gail  felt  no  resentment,  but  only 
emulation,  of  the  light-haired  fellow's  acquaintance 
with  her,  although  he  now  recalled  Pritchard's  remark 
about  him.  Once,  in  a  moment  of  the  shameful  honesty 
which  was  the  key  to  that  flunky's  hold  over  his  mates, 
he  had  observed :  "  A  man  like  him  helps  out  this 
country  no  more  than  we  do."  But  she,  for  whom  now 
he  self-confessed  an  honest  and  exalted  love  —  and 
Lamar,  who  typified  the  malign  forces  corrupting  the 
Youngest  World:  What  were  their  ties? 

Ploughing  aft,  Gail  wrenched  open  the  smoking-room 
door  against  the  wind.  It  banged  behind,  and  a  pitch 
hurled  him  into  his  usual  corner.  He  discerned  through 
the  fetid  tobacco  smoke  the  stout  young  butcher  buried 
in  an  all-story  magazine,  the  Siwash  boy  returning  to 
his  tribe  from  Carlisle  with  a  head  full  of  algebra  but 
unable  to  set  a  marten  trap,  and  all  the  bearded,  booted 
men  whom  the  Seward's  send-off  had  not  moved.  They 
were  not  prospectors  at  all,  but  had  contracted  to  wield 
pick-axes  along  Kilgour's  railroad  for  the  summer. 
Except  for  the  four  others  who  played  "  solo  "  all  day, 
it  was  a  grizzled,  dejected  company,  that  smoked  rank 
cigars  and  fostered  friendships  by  telling  scathing  anec- 
dotes concerning  all  men  and  forces  who  blocked  the 
opulence  each  yearned  for.  Indeed,  but  one  sure- 
enough  argonaut  appeared  to  be  on  board,  the  most 
reticent  of  the  solo  players,  named  Marks,  an  inky- 
haired  being  in  a  tan  leather  jacket,  who  if  drawn  into 


70         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

any  discussion,  slowly  donned  his  gold-rimmed  glasses 
and  argued  with  a  studious,  logical,  wearisome  pre- 
cision. 

At  the  moment,  a  hollow-eyed  youth  with  deeply  fur- 
rowed cheeks,  in  a  black  shirt  was  holding  forth  vio- 
lently. "  Last  year  a  man  coming  to  Eyak  can't  get 
no  work  at  all.  Nor  to  Valdez,  even  cutting  wood. 
Nothing  more  than  five  dollars  a  day,  and  what's  that? 
It  costs  you  three  at  a  hotel.  You  ain't  no  d n  bet- 
ter off  than  outside,  by  hell!"  He  assumed  it  a  cause 
for  withering  anger,  an  insult  to  his  manhood,  that  he 
was  denied  the  wages  he  demanded.  He  seemed  ready 
to  square  off  and  smash  with  his  fists  anyone  who  should 
even  dispute  him. 

The  ambition  of  the  smoking-room  was  to  keep  wages 
at  their  top  pitch,  regardless  of  the  amount  of  labour 
returned.  The  working-man  exalted  himself,  yet  there 
ran  an  under-current  of  assumption  that  toil  was  of 
itself  degrading,  as  vindictive  stories  of  oppression  by 
employers  signified.  They  were  reviled  with  oaths  for 
wasting  money  in  "  fool "  propositions,  by  men  who 
boasted  of  revenging  themselves  by  chucking  away 
their  grub  and  tools  along  trails  in  a  starving  land. 
Such  reminiscences  led  to  disputes  regarding  the  per- 
sonal histories  of  "  operators  " —  names  well-known  to 
them  all ;  and  arguments  waxed  warm  with  an  acid  elo- 
quence. Yet  few  of  them  told  of  encounters  with  fist 
or  gun,  of  primitive  vengeances ;  of  the  passions  in- 
volving manhood  and  honour  that  filled  the  dramatic 
pages  of  romances  that  Gail  had  read  about  Alaska; 
or  of  self-sacrifice  in  hours  of  freezing  and  starvation, 
such  as  newspapers  related.  Most  of  their  stories  led 
with  an  inhuman  terseness  to  some  sardonic  climax, 
keyed  upon  the  treachery  of  one's  employer  or  fellow- 


BOB    SNOWDEN  71 

worker,  or  his  failure  and  defeat  in  being  "  stumped 
by  the  country." 

But  if  Kilgour  entered  the  smoking-room,  all  mili- 
tant talk  subsided.  He  was  treated  reverently,  with 
a  reserved  awe,  asked  hesitating  questions  about  his 
railway,  as  it  were  some  magical  undertaking  from 
which  hung  the  whole  future  of  Alaska.  However 
the  slavery  of  capital  was  vilified  in  its  absence,  its 
imagined  presence  inspired  an  envious  respect.  All 
hands  now  prophesied  a  fabulous  productivity  for  the 
land,  to  be  secured  by  men  standing  loyally  pledged 
to  one  another  in  its,  not  their  own,  interests.  But  Kil- 
gour would  respond  with  no  more  than  far-away 
glances,  in  indefinite  promises ;  and  Gail  would  wonder 
if  men  as  masses  were  not  always  hindered  from  reach- 
ing their  goals  by  the  complexity  of  their  desires. 
Could  it  be  that  only  he  who  stood  by  himself,  armed 
with  ruthless  passions,  fighting  for  unutterable  dreams, 
might  attain  his  guerdon? 

Most  of  these  men  had  lived  for  varying  periods  in 
the  inexorable  North,  which  he  had  dreamed  of  as 
interpreting  the  truth  in  human  hearts ;  yet  the  voids 
in  theirs  were  dim,  discouraging  to  search  into,  unre- 
lieved by  the  buoyancy  or  valour  of  any  living  faith. 

Therefore  Gail's  sympathy  went  out  only  toward 
Rex,  in  his  hopeless  slavery,  and  he  thought  of  Kil- 
gour's  mother  in  rusty  black,  standing  there  smiling 
on  the  dock. 

m 

The  four  who  played  solo,  however,  dominated  their 
fellow-passengers  chiefly  by  touching  more  lightly  upon 
the  burning  issues  of  the  North.  Their  attitude  was 
less  personal  and  morose,  their  humour  compelling  in 


72         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

itself.  In  contrast  with  the  studious  Marks,  the  most 
diverting  of  the  quartette  was  Virgil  Rust,  a  hook- 
nosed, bald  little  lawyer  from  San  Francisco,  who  main- 
tained his  sharp,  city-bred  air  in  a  check  suit  and 
grey  spats.  His  tales  ranged  from  the  shrewdness  of 
free-lance  ladies  along  the  Yukon  in  bilking  youths  who 
had  struck  it  rich  of  their  pokes  of  dust,  to  the  diver- 
sion of  feeding  Siwashes  with  seidlitz  powders  separately. 
Opposite  him  sat  an  old  man  named  Waitt,  with  a  white, 
flowing  moustache  and  protruding  cheek-bones,  which 
with  his  ashy  skin  gave  him  a  gnomish  look.  He  was  of 
an  inquisitive,  scientific  turn  of  mind,  and  usually  spoke 
in  interrogations:  What's  that  red  ore  of  mercury? 
Have  ye  heard  of  this  new  consumption  sarum?  The 
fourth,  Bill  Sinrock,  a  tight-sinewed  giant  with 
rusty  hair  growing  straight  out  from  his  forehead,  who 
smoked  a  clay  pipe  in  a  mouth  so  sunken  between  chin 
and  nose  that  he  seemed  to  have  no  teeth,  was  Kilgour's 
"  bridge  engineer,"  and  the  acknowledged  wit  of  the 
group.  He  showed  no  attainments  in  that  science,  but 
was  undoubtedly  deep  in  the  magnate's  confidence,  so 
that  his  word  was  believed  that  he  had  been  "  twenty 
years  with  the  Southern  Pacific  " —  an  odd  genius  of 
the  frontier  whom  experience  had  elevated  to  heights 
including  and  beyond  all  theory. 

On  Gail's  entrance,  the  hollow-eyed  young  man  had 
interrupted  lawyer  Rust  in  one  of  his  "  Pilkie  "  anec- 
dotes. "  Pilkie  "  was  the  hero  of  endless  feminine  en- 
slavements, a  blond  Frenchman  whom  Rust  had  de- 
fended in  a  townlot- jumping  suit,  in  which  three  ladies 
(one  of  them  Poison  Emma)  who  wore  bathing  suits 
all  that  summer,  had  testified  ad  lib.  Rust  now  took 
up  Pilkie's  fortunes  with  a  thousand-dollar  note,  and 
how  a  Mrs.  Weymouth,  from  Cincinnati,  had  duped 


BOBSNOWDEN  73 

him  in  a  paste  diamond  deal.  But  he  had  craftily  left 
on  the  same  steamer  with  her  when  she  fled  from  Cape 
Nome.  It  was  wrecked  off  Cape  Sarycheff  in  the  Uni- 
mak  Pass  out  of  Bering  Sea.  Pilkie  reached  a  life- 
raft.  Mrs.  Weymouth  hove  alongside,  on  a  life-pre- 
server. .  .  . 

"  And  now  I'm  telling  you  that  ship  of  his  hadn't  no 
more  cement  in  her  bottom,  nor  rusted  baffle-plates  in 
her  boilers,  than  the  old  Seward  has  this  minute,"  he 
affirmed  with  a  sudden  seriousness,  timing  his  words  to 
a  ripping  blast  of  the  storm  outside.  "  We  ain't  mak- 
ing more  than  four  knots  an  hour  now.  Let  her  down 
to  two,  and  we'll  have  to  heave  to  and  wait,  to  save  coal 
for  them  brigands  that  run  this  company." 

"  Our  life-preservers  under  the  bunks  is  nothing  more 
than  straw  and  saw-dust,  too,"  piped  up  Waitt,  plain- 
tively, as  he  dealt  the  cards.  "  I  cuts  into  one  last 
night.  Now  what  is  understood  to  be  the  specific 
gravity  of  straw?  How  long'll  sawdust  keep  a  man 
afloat?  What  rake-off  did  the  inspector  get  for  pass- 
ing them  life-belts  ?  " 

"  A  fine  day's  coming  when  someone'll  make  monkeys 
out  of  the  orf'cers  of  this  company.  Mebbe  put  'em 
to  honest  work,"  growled  Sinrock  dryly.  "  Anyone's 
had  dealing  with  them  knows  how  mean  they  are  — 
ugly  as  a  basket  o'  monkeys  stowed  tail-end  up.  That 
grasping  they'll  eat  restaurant  pie  and  tuck  away  the 
wooden  plates  in  their  jeans." 

Gail  found  himself  dozing.  The  long  pitches  of  the 
old  hull,  the  dense,  reeking  air  made  him  drowsy. 
Waitt's  voice  tackled  radium,  whose  wonders  he 
sketched  with  a  lyceum  air  as  if  he  had  discovered  it. 
Then  he  produced  from  his  pocket  a  piece  of  vitreous 
black  rock  which  he  swore  was  pitchblende  "  from  a 


74         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

ledge  back  of  Orca."  But  he  had  never  had  it  assayed. 
This  year  he  was  bound  North  to  raise  bees  in  Cook 
Inlet.  Sugar  was  up  to  forty  cents  in  this  new  Su- 
sitna  rush,  and  the  country  was  covered  with  honey- 
bearing  fireweed.  He  had  noted  that  while  staking  a 
mile-high  cliff  of  pumace-stone  last  year.  But  the 
pumace  had  contained  too  much  arsenic  to  make  the 
skeleton  bricks  they  use  in  sky-scrapers. 

A  draught  of  cold  air  whipped  in  upon  the  company. 
"  Shut  that  door ! "  bawled  a  dozen  voices.  But  all 
anger  subsided  instantly,  as  the  face  of  the  new-comer 
bloomed  through  the  smoke  above  the  glint  of  gold  and 
ivory  upon  his  waistcoat.  It  was  Mr.  Kilgour. 

"  Bang !  Bang!!  "  burst  out  like  rifle-shots,  rout- 
ing all  feeling  of  homage.  For  a  second's  hair-raising 
silence,  a  dozen  limp  bodies  stiffened,  with  eyes  boring 
through  the  smoke. 

"  Shot,  by  G— !  "  cried  the  shrill  voice  of  Rust,  ever 
on  edge  for  excitement. 

"  Git  the  hound !  Hamstring  the  murderer ! " 
shouted  the  virulent  youth  in  the  black  shirt,  under  the 
common  idea  that  Kilgour  had  been  fired  at. 

A  stertorous  roar  vibrated  from  the  bowels  of  the 
ship.  But  it  was  the  calming  drawl  of  Rex,  rising 
sleepily,  that  disappointed  the  stampede  out  into  the 
raw  daylight  of  nine  o'clock  at  night  — "  'Nother  boiler 
tube  blown  out,  I  bet  you." 

A  cloud  of  steam  raced  along  the  starboard  beam, 
fizzing  up  raucously  from  the  water-line.  Flunkies, 
hairy  Swede  sailors,  frail  women  from  the  Social  Hall, 
elbowed  against  the  smoking-room  crew  in  the  tension 
of  a  panic  not  yet  sure  enough  of  itself  to  have  found 
voice.  The  engineer  and  a  couple  of  stokers  appeared 
at  a  door,  with  shirts  open  on  the  grime  and  sweat  of 


BOBSNOWDEN  75 

their  chests,  gasping  for  air.  But  they  breathed  it 
to  explain  stolidly  that  three  tubes  had  burst.  The 
captain  came  kiting  down  from  the  bridge  in  a  pair 
of  flower-embroidered  carpet  slippers,  shouting  the 
order  to  lie  to  for  repairs.  He  spoke  in  a  Norse  jargon 
that  broke  the  passengers'  strained  fear  of  disaster 
into  laughter,  and  then  a  burst  of  intimate  talk. 

As  the  men  lingered,  speculating,  citing  the  mishaps 
of  other  voyages,  Gail  searched  the  faces  of  the  women, 
still  tense  with  suspicions  of  lurking  danger.  But 
"  Miss  Lamar " —  as  he  fancifully  thought  of  her, 
though  repudiating  any  idea  of  a  relationship  to  the 
copper  man  —  was  not  among  them.  The  mannish 
rounder  from  Spokane,  the  purser's  friend,  in  a 
red  plush  jacket,  flabby-cheeked  and  powdered,  the 
mine  superintendent's  wife  sheltering  her  two  children, 
and  the  Danish  nurse,  clustered  around  Mr.  White- 
mead,  the  sky-pilot.  He,  a  weak-eyed,  elderly,  thin  man, 
with  a  wooden  hand  encased  in  a  glove,  gave  prophetic 
lectures  every  evening  in  the  Social  Hall  concerning  one 
"  Al  Oachim."  Having  forecasted  the  end  of  the  world 
for  1906,  or  three  years  hence,  the  women  looked 
to  him  as  if  they  expected  some  guarantee  of  safety. 
But  he  stood  there  trembling,  with  eyes  flinching,  his 
countenance  like  dough.  Facing  him  for  an  instant, 
the  silent  Marks  laughed  outright. 

"  I  b'lieve  it's  your  '  frog,'  "  said  Sinrock  in  the  ver- 
nacular of  solo,  and  nudging  the  prospector,  led  the  way 
back  to  the  smoking-room. 

"  Now  wouldn't  you  think  that  such  a  sudden  release 
of  pressure  — ?  "  began  Waitt.  But  finding  that  his 
audience  had  vanished,  he  followed  aft. 

Gail  stood  alone.  The  plunging  ship  creaked  in 
every  timber,  as  her  nose  swung  up  against  the  blow. 


76         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

He  heard  a  crash  and  rattle  of  dishes  in  the  pantry. 
The  drizzle  lashed  and  stung  him  in  frigid,  quivering 
sheets.  He  struggled  forward  to  see  how  the  steers 
and  sheep  were  faring  in  their  sheds  on  the  fo'castle 
deck.  And  alone  down  there  in  the  shelter  of  the  cap- 
stan, squatted  the  swarthy  figure  of  an  Italian  who 
was  to  work  under  Sinrock,  playing  on  a  concertina 
some  jerky  tune  that  as  Gail  listened  conjured  a  sense 
of  sunlight  —  sunlight  in  these  ever-writhing,  gloomy 
waters ! 

Soon  he  heard  a  smothered  voice  in  his  ear,  felt  a 
touch  on  his  shoulder.  Turning,  he  met  the  dark-blue 
eyes  and  curly  hair  of  the  athletic  young  man,  his  tall 
figure  muffled  in  a  rubber  poncho. 

IV 

"Hello.  Let's  talk  back  here,"  said  he,  lightly. 
"Some  blow,  eh?  But  the  old  tub  stands  it." 

He  spoke  enjoyably,  drawing  Gail  into  the  lee  of 
the  pilot-house  stair.  They  stood  outside  one  of  the 
stateroom  windows.  Its  glass  was  down,  but  the  lattice 
blind  was  up. 

"  It's  hard  to  get  good  skippers,"  he  went  on. 
"  Only  these  thick-headed  Sowegians'll  stand  the  life. 
Americans  that  know  the  coast  drink.  And  there's 
not  room  enough  on  the  charts  to  put  in  all  the  rocks 
in  these  waters,  with  no  light-houses  at  all."  He  stated 
this,  not  as  a  menace,  but  as  a  diverting  problem. 

"  You're  connected  with  the  Company  ?  "  Gail  ven- 
tured. 

"  Back  East  my  father's  the  president  of  it,"  the 
other  laughed.  "  But  I  pay  my  own  fare  on  these 
trips,"  he  added  with  a  thrust  of  his  narrow  chin. 

"  Oh." 


BOBSNOWDEN  77 

Gail  was  prompted  to  hold  him  responsible  for  in- 
definite injustices,  yet  he  reasonably  could  not. 

"Funny  crowd  aboard,  isn't  there?"  he  went  on. 
"  They  don't  understand  me.  Robert  Snowden  is  my 
name." 

"  Ye-es,"  considered  Gail,  and  then  murmured  his 
own  name.  "  But  I  like  them.  My  job  keeps  me  from 
any  real  acquaintance." 

He  felt  a  freshness  wafted  into  his  mind,  dissipating 
memory  of  the  smoking-room's  corrosive  talk.  The 
man  spoke  with  a  kind  of  staccato  repression,  earnestly, 
and  in  an  accent  that  Gail  judged  to  be  English. 

66  They  haven't  the  faintest  idea  why  I  like  to  climb 
mountains,"  exclaimed  the  other,  with  a  winning  open- 
ness. 

"  Climb  mountains  ? "  Gail  grasped  the  fulness  of 
Pritchard's  remark,  only  to  be  stumped  by  its  weight. 
"  Some  men  do  it  as  a  sport,  don't  they?  And  get 
killed?" 

The  man  burst  into  his  boyish  laugh.  Sinewy 
wrinkles  struck  out  from  his  thin  mouth,  curved  upward 
across  the  quivering  muscles  of  his  hollow  cheeks.  Gail 
saw  that  Snowden  was  older  than  he,  yet  he  had  the 
snap  of  one  younger,  an  exuberance  as  if  he  had  never 
found  resistance  to  his  aims ;  as  if  they  were  inherently 
vitalising.  A  deep,  quizzical  wrinkle  furrowed  the  deli- 
cate skin  of  his  forehead,  whether  he  laughed  or  not. 
His  jaw,  small  for  his  shining  teeth,  made  his  head 
appear  inadequate  and  fragile  for  his  strong  frame. 
The  azure  of  his  eyes  lurked  in  deep  sockets.  He  had 
a  nervous  magnetism. 

"  Some  people  call  it  a  sport.  But  it's  more  than  that 
—  for  me.  I'm  an  enthusiast,"  he  said,  seriously. 
"  And  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you  was  this :  Are  you 


78         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

contracted  to  go  back  on  this  boat?  Have  you  a  regu- 
lar job  with  my  old  man's  outfit?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Gail,  further  puzzled  at  his  con- 
fidences. 

"  You  see,  I'm  bound  to  climb  Mt.  Lincoln.  No  one's 
ever  been  to  the  top.  A  virgin  peak  in  this  high  lati- 
tude. So  it's  tough.  And  nearly  20,000  feet  high. 
But  I  want  another  man.  A  packer  named  Jones, 
who  knows  the  country,  is  meeting  me  in  Valdez,  but  he's 
not  enough." 

The  invitation  was  clear  enough.  It  began  to  stir 
in  Gail  chaotic  thoughts,  of  life-revealing  adventure, 
mingled  with  apprehensions  of  danger,  which  held  him 
dumb. 

"  That's  why  I  spoke  to  you,"  said  Snowden,  shyly 
for  the  first  time.  "  I've  been  watching  you  these  days 
without  your  noticing  it.  You  looked  different  from 
the  others  on  board.  As  if  you  might  feel  —  things 
that  they  wouldn't.  And  I  thought  if  you  weren't  tied 
up  —  though  I  know  I'm  taking  a  risk  —  and  you'll 
want  to  know  my  terms  — "  he  hesitated.  "  Still,  in 
this  country  I've  always  had  to  trust  my  judgment.  A 
man  has  nothing  else  to  go  by.  And  it's  never  played 
me  false,  yet." 

His  straightforwardness  was  irresistible,  inspiring. 
He  knew  his  ambition  in  the  North.  Yet  for  what 
end?  Gail  felt  himself  in  some  way  challenged. 

"  Why  should  a  man  want  to  climb  mountains  ?  "  he 
asked,  hard-headedly. 

"  I  guess  for  the  same  reason  you  exert  yourself  at 
anything.  To  overcome  a  big  difficulty.  Maybe  be- 
cause people  have  laughed  at  me,  and  said  Lincoln  was 
unclimbable.  Even  my  father  doesn't  see  why.  But 
we'll  talk  about  all  that  on  the  trail," 


BOBSNOWDEN  79 

He  seemed  ready  to  forgo  all  reserve.  His  assump- 
tion that  they  were  going  together  raised  thrilling,  be- 
wildering images  before  Gail. 

"  Do  you  climb  for  the  sake  of  climbing?  "  he  asked 
eagerly,  mindful  of  the  Irishman  on  the  dock,  and  his 
goal  of  vagabondage. 

"  Perhaps.  But  for  more  in  my  case."  Snowden 
paused,  reddening.  "  The  silent  places  get  a  power 
over  you.  You  come  to  want  them  terribly,  to  dream 
of  nothing  else  when  you're  not  there.  Things  like  the 
crackling  of  a  glacier  in  the  moonlight.  The  wind 
smoothing  the  grass  in  a  new  valley." 

"  Yes  —  yes  — "  breathed  Gail,  his  mouth  wide.  He 
could  see  his  eyes  shining  in  the  wet  bulkhead  against 
which  Snowden,  whose  whitish  lids  contracted,  quiver- 
ing, leaned.  He  felt  that  a  heart  was  baring  itself. 

"  The  rest  I  couldn't  talk  about  now,"  said  Snow- 
den, quietly. 

"  Things  like  that  might  get  a  hold  on  me,  too," 
Gail  said.  Not  the  envy  nor  bombast  of  the  smoking- 
room  had  blighted  the  North's  transcendent  spell  for 
him.  "  In  spite  of  this  crowd  aboard " 

"  They  don't  belong  to  the  country,  to  its  heart," 
said  Snowden,  with  pity.  "  But  will  you  come  with 
me?" 

"Will  I?  You  bet  I  will!"  cried  Gail.  "And 
there'd  be  no  question  of  wages.  J'd  go  for  the  sake  — " 
Words  failed  him. 

"  Hel-lo !  "  exclaimed  Snowden,  laughing  again.  "  I 
didn't  expect  that  in  this  country,  never." 

"  Tell  me  again.  Why  did  you  choose  me?  "  urged 
Gail. 

"  I  saw  you  had  the  physique,  and  perhaps  the 
nerve.  But  the  main  thing  is  enthusiasm,  and  that 


80         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

comes  on  a  mountain,  if  a  man  can  feel  anything  acutely, 
and  is  honest  with  himself." 

"I  used  to  play  foot-ball,"  confessed  Gail.  "But 
I  guess  myself  is  the  only  person  I've  ever  been  too 
honest  with.  And  I've  never  had  enthusiasm,  except 
for  —  one  thing."  He  checked  himself,  feeling  the  blood 
rush  to  his  face.  "  I  notice  things  and  draw  conclu- 
sions too  fast,  but  I  don't  always  reason  straight.  And 
I've  got  on  without  being  sensitive  to  much  —  except 
lately." 

The  customary  self-abasement  succeeded  his  stimu- 
lation. But  never  before  had  Gail  met  anyone  who 
could  so  draw  him  out  of  himself. 

"  I  can't  seem  to  fit  in  in  life,"  he  complained.  "  I've 
never  been  able  to  get  on,  even  understand  folks  living 
there  around  the  Sound.  It's  one  reason  I'm  flunky- 
ing  here."  He  felt  guilty  at  so  secretive  a  paraphrase 
of  his  married  life.  "  The  other  is  that  I  want  to  be- 
gin all  over  again,  see  everything,  learn,  and  read- 
just—" 

"  Ye-es,"  said  Snowden,  regarding  him  with  a 
thoughtful  intentness ;  then,  alertly,  "  All  right. 
You're  coming  with  me.  It's  a  couple  of  days  before 
we  get  in,  but  we  ought  to  sight  the  Cape  by  morning. 
Come  to  my  room  when  you  get  through  work  to-mor- 
row. We'll  have  a  lot  to  talk  over.  I'm  next  the 
captain's  cabin."  He  started  to  walk  away. 

"  Hold  on  a  moment."  Gail  caught  him  by  the 
arm.  "  I  saw  you  —  talking  to  a  girl  in  the  Social 
Hall." 

Snowden's  blue  eyes  widened,  and  he  laughed,  uncon- 
cerned. "  I  never  noticed  her  till  yesterday,"  he  said. 
"  She's  been  ill.  I  gave  her  some  stuff  for  seasick- 


BOBSNOWDEN  81 

"  Oh,"  uttered  Gail,  relieved  at  the  impersonal  tone. 
..."  So  that  was  all." 

"  We'd  got  talking  about  mountain-climbing,  too. 
She's  interested,  but  can't  understand,  either,"  he 
grinned.  "  Seems  less  forward  than  many  western 
women  you  meet  now.  And  yet  big-spirited,  able  to 
shift  for  herself.  Only  I  don't  like  the  crowd  she's  go- 
ing to  mix  with  in  Alaska,  led  by  a  friend  of  my  pater's. 
Lamar,  a  clever  beast." 

"She  can't  be  hjs  daughter — ?"  exclaimed  Gail 
avidly,  but  Snowden  had  turned  on  his  heel,  and  sprung 
up  the  ladder  to  the  deck  above. 

Yet  Gail  leaned  back  against  the  lattice,  purged 
of  all  doubts  and  misgivings,  unclouded  in  his  valorous 
anticipations  of  Mt.  Lincoln,  drawn  to  Bob  Snowden 
the  more  warmly  in  some  way  indefinable,  compelling. 

An  ashen  light  filled  the  darkness  all  around.  The 
ship's  bell  overhead  sounded  ten  o'clock,  but  in  that 
latitude  the  pulse  of  day  still  pervaded.  So  uncanny 
a  state  of  Nature  seemed  to  signalise  the  daring  fate 
to  which  he  had  given  himself. 

It  had  stopped  raining,  the  wind  was  flagging,  but 
the  swell  continued  to  boom  and  break  at  intervals, 
racking  the  weather  side  of  the  ship.  Gail  made  out 
against  the  wall  of  fog  close  by  a  flutter  of  small 
black  birds  alight  on  the  grey-green  ocean.  Then  he 
felt  a  rubbing  across  the  blade  of  one  shoulder.  The 
lattice  at  his  back  was  being  lowered.  Swinging  about, 
he  faced  a  pair  of  glittering  eyes  under  a  blue  veil,  and 
not  a  foot  from  his  own,  framed  in  a  dark  square. 

"Steam  serenade  over?"  she  whispered;  then  delib- 
erately, leaning  nearer,  so  that  he  felt  her  breath: 
"  Oh,  it's  you.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  gasped  Gail.     "  At  last !  " 


82         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  The  man  I  noticed,  eh,  when  I  nearly  got  left  in 
Seattle?  "  she  smiled,  accepting,  yet  untouched  by,  his 
emotion. 

Dissipated  was  all  the  inquisitive  self-possession  he 
had  rehearsed  for  this  chosen  moment.  Gail  felt  him- 
self beset  by  those  unquellable  dim  yearnings  of  his 
college  days,  when  he  ventured  into  the  city  at  night. 
Thought  of  his  heroic  quest  with  Snowden  disintegrated 
as  if  it  had  been  a  mirage. 

"  Must  have  thought  you'd  seen  me  before?  "  Fi- 
nally he  found  that  he  could  eye  her,  turn  the  table  of 
her  self-confidence.  "  That  I  was  acquainted  with  your 
folks?" 

"  No  —  though  I  have  got  a  brother,"  she  instantly 
met  his  daring  intimacy.  "  But  you  looked  like  a  man 
that  had  been  described  to  me.  I  was  trying  hard  to 
find  him  once.  It  was  quite  sad.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  fell,  throaty,  suppressed.  In  the  ghostly 
twilight,  Gail  saw  her  flush.  But  at  once  she  raised 
her  yellow  eyes  again,  as  if  searching  some  far  horizon ; 
eyes  so  frank  and  wise,  yet  innocent  and  honest,  with 
their  brooding  animal  depth  and  power. 

"  I've  been  ill,"  she  broke  the  pause,  lightly. 
"  That's  why  I  didn't  explain  my  nerve  before.  Sea- 
sick. Absurd  in  a  woman  like  me,  isn't  it?  For  a  girl 
going  North  alone,  in  my  job  and  with  my  prospects,  to 
cave  in  that  way.  But  it's  my  only  weakness.  I  know 
I  can  stand  the  grind  of  the  trail,  all  right.  I  have," 
she  ended,  and  without  any  note  of  boasting. 

"Who  —  are  you?"  hesitated  Gail,  abashed. 

"  Never  mind  yet.  But  I  thought  you  might  have 
come  to  me,"  she  reverted.  "  You  noticed  me  so,  too, 
and  on  a  trip  like  this  — "  she  broke  off,  laughing. 

"How  could  I?"     Gail  touched  his  white  jacket. 


BOB    SNOWDEN  83 

"  But  what's  your  name  ?  "  she  put  in  suddenly.  "  I 
know  it's  not  the  custom  among  men  up  here  to  ask 
that.  But  I  am  a  woman." 

"  ^hain  —  Thain  — "  he  said,  breathless,  struggling 
to  subdue  her  spell  over  him. 

She  started,  as  if  racking  her  memory;  then  her 
face  brightened,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Why  a  flunky  ?  "  she  scrutinised  him.  "  I  could 
bet  you  never  were  before.  But  it  seems  to  agree  with 
you." 

"  I  had  to  do  something.  I  was  broke."  He  felt 
double  the  shame  in  this  half-explanation  that  he  had 
had  with  Snowden.  "But  now  I've  got  a  better  job." 

"Mt.  Lincoln?" 

Taken  aback,  he  steadied  his  gaze  upon  her  breast. 
Long,  ringless  fingers  held  together  the  grey  kimono 
in  which,  without  appearing  aware  of  it,  she  shivered. 
Gail  had  a  sense  of  having  known  her  for  years.  Yet 
it  seemed  that  the  initiative  had  all  been  hers. 

"  You  heard  Snowden  and  me  talking,"  he  charged, 
despite  himself.  "  Everything  we  said." 

"  Yes.  And  I  want  to  ask  you  about  him.  Do  you 
think  he's  real?  He's  so  insane  about  his  mountain- 
climbing.  But  he  interests  me.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me 
what  you  get  out  of  him,  his  ideas." 

"  Let  me  —  come  in,  then,"  broke  out  Gail,  excited. 
His  hand  shot  out,  involuntarily,  and  grasped  the  knob 
of  the  door. 

"  No,  no.  Not  now.  It's  locked.  No  use  to  try  it, 
Mr.  Thain."  But  neither  fear  nor  reproach  tinged  her 
voice.  ..."  Lord,  I  envy  you,  tackling  that  peak," 
she  went  on,  with  an  expansive  sigh.  "  There's  a  thing 
I'd  like  to  do!  And  I  could.  I  know  it,"  she  ended, 
guilelessly.  ..."  Only  I'm  tired  now.  But  come  up 


84          THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

here  tomorrow,  as  soon  as  we  sight  land.  Promise 
me.  .  .  ." 

She  slammed  up  the  lattice  in  his  face.  "  Good 
night.  Now  go  away  — "  It  seemed  as  if  her  last  words 
came  through  the  blind  in  a  soft,  altered  tone. 

"  Hold  on ! "  Gail  cried,  then  checked  himself  in 
chagrin.  He  stared  at  the  window.  Utter  silence 
within.  Had  it  really  been  open  at  all?  Was  not 
their  meeting  an  illusion  of  the  wild  night  and  the  dazing 
motion  of  the  ship?  Collecting  his  senses,  he  tiptoed 
down  the  deck,  in  keen  reproach  for  his  susceptibility; 
he  leaned  over  the  rail,  striving  to  regrasp  his  aspiring, 
intrepid  visions  aroused  by  the  untrodden  mountain. 

But  he  could  not.  Her  image  filled  him  —  the 
velvety,  olive  skin,  the  long,  dark  lashes  and  trembling 
nostrils.  A  woman !  The  brave  simplicity,  the  free, 
out-door  air;  broad-minded,  self-confident,  candid, 
fearless.  And  at  times  in  her  keen  eyes  a  sloe-like  som- 
nolence; a  smouldering,  restrained  yet  shrewd,  dynamic 
passion.  .  .  . 

Again  Gail  recollected  Rex's  insinuation,  Madge's 
cynical  flattery  of  the  women  of  the  Youngest  World. 
He  loathed  himself  for  his  initial  doubts.  Even  the 
gross  Pritchard  had  read  her  more  justly. 

With  a  sudden  impulse,  Gail  hurried  below  to  his 
freight-hold  and  Rex's  bunk.  He  seized  and  shook  the 
youth,  heavy  and  irritable  in  a  reaction  to  his  drug, 
into  wakefulness,  and  visited  his  slur  upon  him. 

"Eat  those  words!  You  take  that  back,"  Gail 
ordered,  "  or  I'll  —  cuff  you." 

"  I  didn't  mean  nothing,  friend,"  the  boy  whimpered. 
"  Guess  I  mistook  her.  I  only  judged  by  the  crowd 
I'd  seen  her  with  in  Seattle.  But  I'll  save  her  life,  yet," 
he  mumbled. 


BOBSNOWDEN  85 

Gail  dropped  him  in  disgust,  and  groped  back  to  the 
deck. 

All  at  once  the  fog  appeared  to  curdle  at  the  touch 
of  an  unearthly  light.  Away  North  in  mid-air,  a  spot 
in  the  encircling  pall  began  to  glow.  The  curtain 
parted.  As  in  a  vignette,  there  floated  behind  coiling 
wraiths  of  mist  clear,  crumpled  peaks ;  all  soft  and 
white,  yet  angular.  Lucent  shadows  tricked  them  out 
into  things  of  ivory  and  opal.  Land !  Mountains ! 
Dazzling  alps !  The  fog  sank  through  the  sea,  dyeing 
it  with  the  colour  of  copper  dust,  which  verged  into  a 
bright  azure  boundary  along  the  base  of  the  far  range. 
And  there,  out  of  a  haze  exhaled  from  the  twisting 
avenues  of  glaciers,  the  snows  lifted  their  gigantic 
crests  into  a  heaven  pale  green  as  ice.  They  caught 
fire,  flamed  in  vermilion  sweeping  upward,  burning  into 
cloud. 

On  the  sea  a  whale  lifted  a  crimson  pennant  of  spray. 
Nearer,  the  puppy  head  of  a  seal  twitched  out  and 
vanished. 

When  Gail  looked  up  again,  the  sky  was  all  beaten 
gold.  But  the  peaks  stood  out  beneath,  hard,  remote, 
diminished,  as  if  made  of  porcelain;  dull  rose;  then 
violet  —  a  flinty  blue.  They  darkened  with  fast- 
streaming  clouds.  The  fog  curtain  intervened,  and  all 
was  gone ;  but  it  seemed  to  Gail  as  if  his  heart  had  soared 
away  into  the  glory  behind  there. 

"  The  North !  "  he  whispered. 

He  grew  aware  of  a  steady  tremor.  The  ship  was 
under  way  again.  Gail  stumbled  down  into  his  bunk. 


At  breakfast,  Mitchell  confided  to  the  romantic  hos- 
pital nurse  that  Cape  St.  Nicholas  had  been  sighted  at 


86         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

dawn.  Gail,  kept  at  work  until  the  dinner  dishes  were 
washed,  could  visit  neither  Snowden  nor  the  girl  till 
evening.  She  did  not  appear  in  the  dining-room,  but 
during  each  meal  the  man's  keen  eyes  followed  him  cease- 
lessly. 

He  had  tossed,  sleepless,  all  night.  In  the  pantry's 
fumes  of  rancid  food  and  hot  soap,  the  bitter  maunder- 
ings  of  the  wizened  derelicts,  clattering  and  swabbing 
dishes,  took  on  an  unreality.  Figments  of  privation 
among  towering  snows  continued  to  struggle  in  Gail's 
brain  against  the  mad,  alluring  choice:  To  cancel  his 
promise  of  climbing  Mt.  Lincoln,  to  follow  her,  what- 
ever her  business,  wherever,  to  whomsoever,  she  was 
going.  .  .  .  Yet  —  no !  Snowden  had  his  word ;  to 
break  it  would  be  dishonourable.  Was  not  even  his 
love  that?  He  still  was  married.  And  had  he  not  in 
that  solemn  compact  with  himself,  on  which  he  had 
staked  his  future,  dedicated  his  heart  to  search  the  lives 
and  hungers  of  all  men  throughout  the  North? 

When  at  last  he  breathed  the  chill  air  on  deck,  it 
was  deserted.  The  wind  had  dropped  flat,  and  the 
Seward  —  without  whistling,  for  there  was  no  need  in 
these  untravelled  waters  —  was  pounding  along  through 
a  thick  fog  which  kept  shutting  in,  then  revealing  ma- 
gically, the  dense,  dripping  cedars  of  passing  islands. 
A  grey  headland,  like  a  titanic  bread-loaf,  treeless  and 
scarred  with  avalanches,  ringed  about  with  snowy  surf, 
penetrated  the  moist  gloom;  and  off  it,  a  sheer  pale- 
ashen  rock,  like  a  robed  and  headless  priest,  attuned 
the  subdued  and  menacing  thunder  from  a  wide  field 
of  foam-flecked  reef.  Then  beyond  all,  crinkled  and 
shimmering  through  the  drizzle,  as  if  distorted  behind 
thin  isinglass,  towered  the  ranges  of  yesterday,  drenched 
in  a  pinkish  glow,  beneath  a  faint  sulphurous  sky.  A 


BOBSNOWDEN  87 

bos'n  bird  followed  the  ship  on  concaved  wings.  A  troop 
of  porpoises  wheeled  off  into  the  obscurity. 

Should  he  go  first  to  Snowden,  or  to  her?  The  man, 
he  decided  with  restraint.  But  nearing  the  ladder 
which  the  mountain-climber  had  last  ascended,  Gail 
saw  that  the  woman's  door  was  ajar.  In  a  deep  pitch 
of  the  deck,  it  swung  open  against  him.  He  pushed  it 
to,  but  again  it  lurched  out,  so  that  he  grasped  the 
knob,  the  inner  one;  and  the  next  moment  found  h'imself 
stepping  over  the  sill,  into  the  stateroom. 

"  That  last  plunge  got  action,"  she  said  coolly,  with- 
out raising  her  eyes  from  a  small  red  leather  note-book 
she  was  figuring  in.  She  lay  on  the  plush  bench  oppo- 
site her  bunk,  her  head  propped  by  a  pillow,  knees 
raised  and  crossed,  showing  slim,  strong  ankles  above 
beaded  moccasins.  "  Sit  there."  She  pointed  with 
her  pencil,  not  looking  up,  to  the  foot  of  the  bunk. 
She  wore  the  tight,  plum-coloured  waist.  It  came  low 
on  her  neck,  and  her  long  jet  hair  was  down  over  her 
shoulders. 

Gail  obeyed,  speechless.  The  pounding  of  his  heart 
annoyed  him. 

"  Where  are  we?  "  she  went  on,  still  absorbed  in  her 
memoranda.  "  What's  freight  at  two  bits  a  pound  per 
hundred  miles,  for  two  hundred  and  fifty?  That's  all 
right  for  flour  —  bulky  stuff  —  but  you'd  think  we'd 
get  a  discount  on  ammunition.  Oh,  but  Charley  can- 
celled that." 

"  Finding  the  entrance  to  the  bay,"  Gail  started. 
"  There's  land  everywhere." 

"  But  that  moaning  sound,"  she  said  briskly,  swing- 
ing upright  on  the  seat.  She  tossed  the  pencil  and 
small  book  to  the  blankets  where  Gail  sat. 

"  Reefs,    perhaps.     I    just    saw    one."     His    voice 


88         THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

sounded  uncertain  to  him.  On  a  chair,  with  orange 
peels  and  an  empty  coffee  cup,  he  saw  two  cigarette 
butts  in  the  tray. 

"What  do  you  know,  anyway?"  she  asked  with  a 
hint  of  raillery,  and  reached  for  her  "  makes  "  by  the 
wash-bowl.  Deftly  she  rolled  a  cigarette.  "  Tell  me 
about  yourself.  I  should  say  that  you  weren't  —  sen- 
timental. You  look  strong,  not  only  muscular."  She 
smiled,  invitingly. 

"  My  strength  has  always  played  me  false,"  he 
evaded.  He  filled  his  pipe  roughly. 

"  Oh,  I  meant  —  character." 

"  That,  too.  I've  been  a  failure  at  everything.  .  .  . 
I  can't  tell  you  any  more.  Has  Snowden  said  anything 
about  me  ?  " 

"  We  discussed  you  this  morningi.  He  said  that 
you  — "  she  paused,  "  reasoned  slowly.  Had  observed 
more  than  you  understood.  But  that  you'd  stick." 

"  I  haven't  yet,  at  any  job.  But  weren't  we  going 
to  talk  about  Snowden?" 

"  Yes,  but  aren't  we  more  interesting?  "  she  cast  a 
sidelong  glance  which  fired  him.  "You  and  I?  " 

"  I  see  meanings,  my  meanings  in  everything,"  he 
withstood.  "  But  I  don't  always  catch  other  people's 
right," —  significantly. 

She  leaned  forward,  staring,  with  a  quick  move  of 
irresolution.  "  Do  you  always  talk  to  women  like 
this  ?  "  she  asked,  puckering  her  lips  about  a  smoke- 
ring. 

"I  —  I've  never  talked  much  to  good  women." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  thoughtfully  at  length.  "  I  suppose 
I  am  a  good  woman.  Too  good,  as  they  go  down 
around  the  Sound.  One  reason  I've  never  had  the  show 
I  wanted  there,  and  came  up  here." 


BOB    SNOWDEN  89 

She,  also,  then,  baffled  by  circumstance!  Gail's  eyes 
brightened,  in  an  avid,  sympathetic  flood  of  curiosity, 
which  yet  held  him  dumb. 

"  You  see,  it's  hard  for  a  woman  in1  this  short- 
sighted, prodigal  country,"  she  went  on,  self-absorbed. 
"  Hard  to  see  the  right  ends,  the  big  ultimate  purposes, 
clearly.  You  get  tangled,  lost,  in  its  momentary 
crazes,  illusions,  passions  —  mix  right  and  wrong,  the 
just  and  unjust."  She  stopped  short,  to  question  with 
vigour,  "  But  what's  that  to  do  with  us,  here  and  now? 
After  all,  a  woman's  chief  duty  is  to  yield." 

Her  voice  had  lowered.  She  sighed  dejectedly. 
She  leaned  further  toward  Gail,  elbows  on  her  knees, 
both  fists  clenched  beneath  her  chin,  eyes  fixed  on  the 
coarse  oilcloth  underfoot.  The  touch  of  her  breath,  the 
emanations  of  her  body  dazed  him.  He  felt  giddy. 

"  What  do  we  care,  anyway  ?  "  she  harked  back, 
throatily  now.  "  Gabriel  —  I  got  your  name  from  tKe 
steward."  Her  raised  look  swept  him,  irresistible. 

Gail  leaped  to  his  feet.  Their  eyes  met,  hers  in  a 
visage  paler  than  he  could  have  conceived.  The  smooth 
skin  of  her  low  neck  crept  and  undulated  upon  its 
plump,  strong  cords.  She  tossed  back  her  veiling  hair. 
The  penetration  of  her  yellow  irises  was  dimmed  with 
moisture,  yet  their  gaze  scorched  him.  Gail  thrust  out 
his  arms;  but  instantly  they  drooped,  cowed  and 
numbed,  to  his  sides. 

For  one  black  instant  he  misjudged  her.  For  the 
length  of  one  insidious  breath,  he  had  misread  her  self- 
reliance,  her  high-striving  intensity.  And  in  the  next, 
loathing  himself,  it  was  she  who  shattered  the  foul  illu- 
sion. 

"  Wrong  —  wrong.  My  fault  —  always  wrong !  " 
She  shook  her  drooping  head.  "  The  heart  on  the 


90        THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

sleeve.  .  .  .  But  you  wouldn't  be  a  man  if  you 
hadn't  stood  ready.  And  by  heaven,  I  do  like  you, 
even  though  you  thought  I  — "  Her  face  flooded  a  dire, 
dark  crimson.  "  But  I  am  in  a  dreadful  fix."  Yet 
her  strong  mouth  quivered  with  the  ghost  of  a  chal- 
lenging laugh,  that  broke  the  inscrutable  knitting  of 
her  high  and  handsome  brows. 

Gail,  still  rigid,  caught  sight  of  his  face  in  the  mir- 
ror over  the  wash-bowl.  His  pearly  hair  was  touselled, 
his  eyes  reddened  as  if  he  were  intoxicated;  the  points 
of  his  high,  savage  cheek-bones  aflame;  the  outer  edges 
of  his  eyebrows  raised  satanically,  and  his  lip  doubled 
with  its  old  look  of  scorn. 

Was  it  all  fair  —  in  a  good  woman  —  to  dominate 
him  thus? 

VI 

Suddenly  the  ship  lurched  violently*.  The  raised 
lattice  of  the  window  fell  with  a  bang,  and  a  cold  whiff 
of  fog  rushed  in  over  them.  As  Gail  pulled  up  the 
blind,  there  broke  out  overhead  a  tramping  of  feet,  a 
murmur  of  voices,  all  aft  along  the  decks.  He  peered 
over  the  lattice.  Ten  yards  away  the  sea  ended  against 
a  wall  of  darkness. 

"The  fog's  thicker  than  ever,"  he  reported. 
"Every  one's  coming  on  deck.  Those  women'll  give 
that  prophet  a  good  time  yet." 

The  quip  renewed  her  flagging  cheer.  "  Sit  down," 
she  said. 

Gail  obeyed,  but  at  once  demanded : 

"Who's  the  Charley  you  just  mentioned?  " 

"Lamar,"  she  answered,  laconically.  "You  know 
him?" 

"  You're  not  — ?  "  he  began  with  a  sinking  sense. 


BOB    SNOWDEN  91 

..."  No.  I've  only  heard  of  him.  A  big  operator." 
He  recalled  more  definitely  Madge's  talk  with  Lena. 
"  Fighting  a  crowd  of  dry-farmers  over  some  townsite 
up  here." 

Her  face  clouded,  but  she  continued  to  eye  him. 
"  I'm  not  what  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Lamar's  not  my  name, 
if  you  mean  that.  What  could  make  you  think  so?  " 

"  I  heard  Snowden  yesterday,  through  the  Social  Hall 
door,  using  it  to  you,"  he  confessed. 

"  Well,  I  am  traveling  for  Charley.  Up  to  join 
him  at  Torlina."  Her  voice  hardened.  "  Aboard  here 
they  have  called  me  '  Miss  Lamar.'  I  guess  it's  as 
good  a  name  as  any  other.  I've  let  it  go  at  that.  And 
why  not?  For  a  single  woman  with  my  looks  and  na- 
ture, traveling  alone  to  a  place  like  Alaska  on  her  first 
trip,  a  name  like  that  ought  to  save  her  from  gossip, 
from  anything  —  disagreeable."  She  hesitated,  nerving 
herself.  "  As  a  fact,  I'm  his  secretary  and  stenogra- 
pher, and  have  been  for  four  years,  since  I  came  to 
Seattle  from  Michigan.  But  I'm  thinking  Lamar  may 
be  my  right  name,  soon.  Didn't  I  mention  yielding?  " 

"  Don't  tell  me  you're  going  to  — "  Gail  asked  reck- 
lessly. 

"  No.  Not  marry  him,  just  yet,"  she  paused, 
bending  her  head,  holding  Gail  breathless.  He  felt  a 
moisture  start  in  the  palms  of  his  hands.  "  We're  only 
engaged  to  be.  ...  Still,  I'm  not  sure.  You've  no- 
ticed my  uncertainty  —  my  interest,  even  in  you." 

For  a  moment  she  lapsed  into  a  motionless  silence. 
Gail  thrilled.  She  continued  fervidly: 

"  I  was  in  love  with  him,  or  thought  I  was,  when  he 
went  North  two  months  ago.  He  wanted  to  marry  me 
then.  But  now  I  doubt.  .  .  .  I'm  following  him  to  test 
my  love,  my  faith  in  him,  in  his  works  and  purposes. 


92         THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

I  want  to  see  him  in  action.  I  told  him  I  was  coming 
for  that.  *  All  right,  Clara,'  he  answered.  But  I 
could  tell  by  his  manner  he  didn't  want  me,  perhaps  was 
afraid."  She  paused  again.  ..."  I  just  told  you 
that  between  the  principles  and  customs  of  this  western 
country,  and  its  strong  men,  how  hard  it  is  for  a  woman 
to  keep  her  head.  She's  like  to  fall  victim  to  the  both 
of  them.  But  so  far  I've  kept  my  place,  I  think;  my 
head  up  to  it,  a  grip  on  things.  I'm  sure  of  myself, 
with  any  man." 

She  raised  her  look  to  Gail's.  No  animal  gleam  fired 
her  pupils  now,  though  they  had  contracted  to  pin- 
points. Gail  felt  weak,  aware  that  the  beating  of  his 
heart  had  become  exhausting. 

"  But  I'm  going  to  help  Charles  Lamar,  just  the 
same,  at  our  townsite  there  on  Atna  River,  against  the 
men  from  Idaho  that  are  trying  to  grab  it.  That's 
only  loyal  to  the  man  you  love.  Yet  when  you  come 
down  to  it,  from  a  lot  I've  heard  since  he's  been  gone, 
Torlina's  the  rightful  stake  of  those  dry-farmers,  and 
Charley's  wrong  to  claim  it.  But  the  Copper  Trust, 
his  trust,  is  God  himself  to  him.  Still,  if  I  had  my 
way,  I'd  spend  my  life  doing  justice  to  men  like  them 
whom  it's  crowding  out  all  over  Alaska.  I'd  give  those 
Chyta  Company  boys  all  that  we've  jumped  of  theirs 
up  here.  They  were  on  the  ground  first,  and  they're 
the  land's  real  people,  the  kind  it  needs.  So  I'm  going 
to  Alaska  to  make  it  the  touchstone  —  of  my  love 
for  Charley,  of  my  ideas  and  his,  the  worth  of  us  both. 
And  yet  I  could  never  go  against  him,"  she  ended 
abruptly.  "  I'm  a  woman.  He's  a  man,  too." 

"  Clara !  "  cried  Gail,  despite  himself,  again  spring- 
ing to  his  feet. 

A  hubbub  of  voices,  a  loud  scuffling,  came  from  just 


BOB    SNOW  DEN  93 

outside  the  window.  The  ship  had  trembled  for  an  in- 
stant, as  if  struck  a  blow.  She  seemed  to  heave,  to  rise 
and  pause  suspended;  then  to  glide  on  with  a  smooth, 
sickening  plunge,  in  which  no  throbbing  of  her  engines 
was  sensible.  A  guttural  shout,  giving  orders,  boomed 
out  above  the  general  hum  of  voices.  A  hand  rattled 
the  latch  of  the  stateroom. 

Gail  sprang  to  the  lattice.  The  ship  heaved  and 
pitched  helplessly.  He  braced  himself  against  the  door, 
listening,  his  fists  clenched;  and  through  the  tumult  he 
seemed  to  view,  as  if  he  were  another  person,  the  best 
and  the  worst  of  his  nature  in  combat. 

"  They'll  come  again,  if  there's  any  danger,"  said  the 
woman,  as  with  a  calculated  calmness  to  direct  the  crisis. 

"  Clara,  I  love  you,  love  you ! "  Gail  leaped  at  her, 
again  with  outstretched  arms. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  composedly,  lifting  a  warning 
hand,  but  trembling.  "Perhaps.  But  what's  the  use? 
We're  both  pledged."  She  spoke  with  a  hoarse  quiet- 
ness. Her  tawny  eyes  had  misted  over. 

"  To  heU  with  Mt.  Lincoln ! "  .  .  . 

"  Don't  be  a  welcher.     Wait  —  wait.  .  .  .  Gabriel !  " 

"Yes  — besides  — I'm  mad!"     He  relaxed. 

A  warning  blow  fell  upon  the  door.  Gail  flung  it 
open,  and  together  they  joined  the  babel  of  the  deck. 

A  crash  shivered  the  ship.  No  sense  of  motion  suc- 
ceeded. Only  a  succumbing  silence,  instantly  broken 
by  a  piercing,  strident  human  uproar. 

Their  hands  clasped.  Gail's  lips  grazed  her  fore- 
head, but  she  roughly  thrust  him  from  her. 

vn 

The  panic  had  already  voiced  terror  to  its  utter- 
most. Gail  mingled  with  the  still  surging,  shouting 


94         THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

throng,  to  find  that  with  the  knowledge  of  what  had 
actually  happened,  its  despair  had  subsided  into  indi- 
vidual chaotic  action. 

Officers,  sailors  gigantic  in  rubber  boots  and  yellow 
slickers,  elbowed  about,  roaring  orders  and  incoherent 
avowals  of  safety.  Gail  saw  the  mummy-faced  Waitt 
wearing  a  life-preserver  with  a  fringe  of  straw  pro- 
truding from  a  rip;  Whitemead,  the  prophet,  defend- 
ing himself  with  his  wooden  hand  from  an  hysterical 
onslaught  by  the  lady  from  Spokane;  the  children  in 
red  flanned  being  consoled  by  Kilgour,  as  they  wept 
bitterly,  heads  buried  in  the  skirts  of  their  livid  and  im- 
mobile mother,  who  gaped  mutely  at  Clara's  streaming 
hair. 

Down  on  the  fo'castle,  Italians  in  short,  tight 
trousers  struggled  under  bundles  of  gay  cloth  on  their 
shoulders,  dodging  among  bleating  sheep  and  bellow- 
ing steers  that  charged  about,  loosed  from  the  broken 
corrals.  Aft,  Pritchard,  swearing  in  torrents,  with  a 
drawn  revolver,  was  keeping  at  bay  the  white- j  acketed 
flunkies  (the  steward  and  the  violent  man  in  the  black 
shirt  clamouring  among  them)  from  ransacking  the 
staterooms. 

Looking  up,  Gail  noticed  the  lifeboats  hanging  neg- 
lected from  their  davits  over  the  foam-streaked,  boiling 
sea.  With  Clara,  he  rounded  to  the  port  side,  and 
there  saw  the  truth  of  the  disaster.  The  fog  was  clear- 
ing. Broken  down  and  drifting  across  deadly  ground, 
the  Seward  had  brought  up  with  her  bow  rammed  into 
the  very  cliffs  of  a  large  island.  Held  in  a  rocky  vise, 
full  in  the  on-shore  blast,  she  met  the  assault  of  heav- 
ing, sage-green  swells,  thudding  against  her  so  that 
it  seemed  she  would  break  up  at  every  blow.  The  in- 


BOB    SNOWDEN  95^ 

cessant  roaring  of  a  long  reef  which  slanted  outward 
to  dim  islands  that  were  alps,  and  hideous  with  surf- 
washed,  pillared  rock,  mingled  with  the  thunder  of 
breakers  under  the  towering  cliffs  at  hand.  Their 
spray,  shooting  into  a  high  thatch  of  dripping  spruces, 
rained  back  upon  the  bow. 

A  scuffle  broke  out  beside  Gail.  Two  sailors  were 
grappling  with  Rex  Murkid,  as  he  fought  to  escape, 
climb  over  the  rail,  and  plunge  into  the  sea.  In  a 
frenzy  imparted  by  his  drug,  he  was  shouting  to  the 
Danish  nurse,  who  stood  near  trembling  and  weeping 
with  joy  and  pity  — 

"  She's  a-going  overboard.  Lemme  save  her. 
Lemmy  name  live  for  a  hero !  .  .  ." 

The  white-haired  old  skipper  stood  hatless  in  his 
shirtsleeves  and  red  suspenders,  outside  the  pilot  house 
above.  In  weak-voiced,  spluttering  Norwegian  he  was 
directing  four  sailors,  balanced  on  top  of  a  horse  stall, 
to  throw  a  line  over  to  the  ledge  of  a  cliff  that  almost 
touched  the  bow.  Gail  caught  sight  of  Sinrock's 
sunken  mouth.  He  was  standing  on  the  rock  there,  on 
his  job,  helping  the  sailors. 

Snowden  appeared,  his  large  blue  eyes  snapping,  ex- 
ulting in  his  easy  self-control.  He  burst  into  a  nerv- 
ous rigmarole  about  getting  the  women  and  children 
ashore  first. 

"Talk  about  luck!"  he  exclaimed.  "  Eyak  settle- 
ment's only  five  miles  up  the  coast,  and  a  wireless  sta- 
tion. Says  there's  a  tug  there'll  take  us  off.  Thank 
heaven  all  my  stuff's  ahead  in  Valdez." 

Clara  greeted  him,  radiant,  binding  up  her  hair.  As 
he  turned  away,  Gail  felt  a  firm,  soft  pressure  on  his 
hand. 


96         THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  .Climb  his  mountain,"  she  whispered.  "  I  shan't 
forget  —  ever.  .  .  ." 

To  Gail,  the  clouds  burned  roseate.  The  ship  rested 
in  ether.  Ah,  how  he  loved  her,  loved  her ! 


BOOK  TWO 


CHAPTER  VI 

SUICIDE  JONESY 


THE  pyramid  of  a  silk  tent  showed  as  a  white  speck 
mid-high  against  the  wall  of  a  rust-red  valley.  Around 
it,  the  July  day's  snowfall  was  melting  upon  a  narrow 
shelf  of  moss  and  boulders,  which  a  trickle  of  snow 
water  from  the  cliffs  overhead  flushed  with  greenness. 
Then  the  stream  boiled  on  past  an  old  drift  surviving 
from  the  winter,  out  of  which  willows  were  emerging 
gnarled,  but  with  bursting  leaf -buds,  and  plunged  un- 
der again  into  the  abyss  beneath. 

The  tent  was  guyed  down  with  cross-headed  ice-axes, 
and  three  men  lay  between  it  and  a  hot  but  flameless 
fire  of  the  willow  branches.  They  were  eating  supper. 
Days  ago,  from  the  flat  tundra  to  the  northwest,  they 
had  gazed  upward  hither,  covetously,  between  the  por- 
tals of  the  towering  Lincoln  Range.  Now  across  the 
void  edging  camp  they  faced  a  naked  wall  shooting  up 
into  saw-teeth,  which  dark  and  boiling  clouds,  defying 
the  bright  eight  o'clock  sun,  ever  sugared  with  a  thin 
whiteness.  Downward,  it  was  scarred  by  the  paths  of 
avalanches,  cut  by  grisly  knobs  and  ruffs  of  rock,  to 
meet  a  flat  ribbon  of  desolation,  a  strip  of  desert 

laid  within  the  gloom  of  alps.     There  the  channels  of  a 

97 


98        THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

river  were  etched  in  twisting  threads,  tearing  along 
from  the  veiled  seas  of  ice  at  the  valley  head.  They 
glittered  this  evening  like  a  tangle  of  golden  wires,  and 
meeting  a  tongue  of  dark  spruce  land,  vanished  out- 
ward into  the  flat  and  purple  immensity  of  the  tundra. 

"Gail!" 

"Hello,  Bob." 

"  Four  thousand  feet  and  clearing,"  announced  Snow- 
den,  wiping  the  face  of  his  pocket  aneroid  barometer 
with  a  thumb.  "  Begin  the  big  climb  tomorrow,  eh?  " 
he  exclaimed  with  a  restless  toss  of  his  head. 

"  Thanks  to  them  horses,"  drawled  the  stocky,  over- 
muscled,  short  man  with  grey  hair,  stomach  down  on 
the  moss,  eating  beans  from  a  tin  cup.  "  In  a  Christian 
country  it  'ud  call  for  block  and  tackle  to  winch  us  up 
where  we  come  today.  Talk  of  beatin'  sheep  at  their 
own  game.  If  that  old  ram  we  trailed  yestidday  had 
seen  us  a  humpin'  up  them  switch-backs,  he'd  uv  hid 
for  shame.  That  buckskin  horse  of  mine'll  be  growin' 
horns  and  eatin'  snowballs  yet." 

"  Well,  Jonesy,  tomorrow's  their  last  day,"  quickly 
encouraged  Snowden.  "  If  this  ledge  we're  on  holds 
up  to  the  pass  we  saw  from  below,  we  can  get  over  it 
and  back  onto  the  main  glacier,  without  having  to  fol- 
low the  river  and  climb  the  big  moraine.  The  fresh 
snow  up  here'll  be  too  deep  to  take  them  further,  and 
they  can  eat  their  heads  off  down  among  the  foot-hills 
till  we  three  get  back." 

"  Hark ! "  interrupted  Jonesy,  springing  to  his  feet. 

He  craned  forward  his  thick  neck,  listening,  toward 
the  point  where  the  level  of  camp  dipped  sheer  into  their 
trail  from  below.  The  whites  of  his  grey  eyes  bulged 
with  an  alertness  that  contrasted  curiously  with  his 


SUICIDE    JONESY  99 

heavy  features,  and  the  scar  on  his  throat,  to  which  he 
owed  the  nickname  of  "  Suicide,"  flushed  faintly. 

"  You  heard  that  noise  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  hushed  voice. 
"Like  a  small  sort  of  landslide?  " 

Snowden  and  Gail  raised  their  heads,  listening  a  mo- 
ment. "  No,"  they  said  together. 

Only  two  sounds  had  been  vying  with  the  brawl  of  the 
stream  in  the  willows,  and  they  were  mere  reverbera- 
tions in  the  vagrant  air  eddying  among  the  pinnacles 
of  rock  above  and  below:  the  voice  of  the  river  in  its 
depths,  and  the  low-toned  bells  of  Jonesy's  pack-train, 
as  it  browsed  just  below  camp  —  each  heard  echo-like, 
languidly,  as  if  through  some  invisible  door,  now  swing- 
ing open,  now  shut. 

"  You  catch  them  horse-bells  ?  I  don't  any  more," 
broke  out  Jonesy.  "  Oh,  you  devils !  And  I  seen  the 
pinto  a  minute  back  nosing  along  the  snow-bank  yon- 
der. Beaten  it!  They've  hiked  back  to  timber." 

He  loped  off  after  them,  in  his  muscle-bound  way. 

Gail  again  lifted  his  face,  gaunt  and  tanned  to  a  deep 
mahogany,  from  the  whitish  moss.  The  black  of  his 
slant  eyebrows,  and  the  gloss  of  his  lighter  hair  were 
touched  with  sun-bleach.  "  That's  Jonesy,  always 
worrying  about  his  horses,"  he  said,  getting  up  and 
shaking  himself  as  one  routs  weariness  with  a  wrench 
of  will. 

"  But  he's  been  the  ace  of  this  outfit,"  affirmed  Snow- 
den.  "  No  matter  how  he  curses  our  mountain-climbing 
for  a  fool  business,  there's  a  rustler  for  you !  And  now, 
when  what  I  dreaded  worst  is  over  —  the  getting  in  here 
to  the  foot  of  old  Lincoln  —  and  we  can  look  back  over 
the  hell  we've  been  through,  can  we  ever  forget  him, 
Gail?  Laughing  as  he  hoed  his  old  buckskin  out  of 


100       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

that  quicksand  in  Kulana  Creek,  backtrailing  that 
brown  horse  all  night  while  we  lay  in  camp  too  tired  to 
spit,  and  then  waking  us  in  the  morning  with  a  mess  of 
fish  from  the  river,  fresh  as  a  lark."  He  gathered  up 
the  bean-pot,  teapot  and  dishes,  slipping  them  under 
the  tarpaulins  covering  the  sawbuck  saddles.  "  He's 
magic  with  cayuses  because  he  loves  them.  He's  one  of 
them  himself,  almost." 

Gail  shook  his  head.  "  It's  you  that  has  the  magic, 
Bob,  to  keep  us  with  you,"  he  said,  yawning.  "  I  don't 
know  but  what  Jonesy's  right  about  climbing  moun- 
tains." 

Snowden  laughed,  impatiently.  "  Sheer  hard  work, 
the  fight  to  get  in  here,  has  dazed  you,"  he  said. 
"  That's  all.  You'll  get  over  it.  You've  had  real 
Alaska  numbness.  Only  wait." 

"  My  head  hasn't  worked,  and  I  haven't  had  an  idea 
since  we  hit  the  trail,"  agreed  Gail.  "  And  worse,  I've 
never  taken  hold  of  things.  It  was  like  being  shot  from 
a  gun  —  up  to  Valdez  in  that  coal  outfit's  launch. 
Then  the  diamond  hitch  and  fighting  mosquitoes,  day  in 
and  out.  It  seems  we've  been  gone  a  year,  recinching 
packs  in  glacier  streams  with  the  water  boiling  around 
your  waist,  digging  horses  out  of  mud-holes."  He 
stopped  short.  "  And  I'd  imagined  once  that  something 
was  going  to  be,"  he  went  on,  lowering  his  voice,  "  in- 
spiring, heroic,  in  this  sort  of  life  among  these  moun- 
tains. But  I've  missed  feeling  the  way  they  appeared 
to  promise.  Instead  it's  all  made  me  sullen." 

"  It'll  be  different  when  we're  climbing,"  said  Bob, 
regarding  him  thoughtfully.  "  No  man  ever  wanted  to 
notice  how  the  fog  floors  a  valley,  or  a  snow  range  turns 
purple,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "  when  he's  back- 
trailing  cayuses  in  a  cloud  of  bulldog  flies,  or  sweating 


SUICIDE    JONESY  101 

after  them  through  dead  spruce,  with  the  branches 
screeching  across  your  packs,  ripping  the  canvas  open. 
You  see  matters  too  close  then.  They've  been  ground 
so  into  us." 

Gail  turned  away,  ruminating.  He  had  also  missed 
mingling  with  the  men  of  the  North.  They  had  met  no 
one  on  the  trail.  But  if  he  had  lacked  initiative,  he  had 
not  yet  known  fear.  There  was  the  time  he  had  forded 
Chyta  River  on  the  pinto's  pack.  The  horse  had 
turned  turtle,  and,  dodging  the  mad  lunges  of  his  hoofs, 
Gail  had  swam  ashore  through  a  rapid.  He  had  ex- 
ulted in  that  fight  for  life. 

And  if  he  had  been  moody,  he  had  never  lost  his 
temper.  Yet  Bob,  nervous,  sanguine,  abrupt,  had  once 
flown  off  the  handle  on  finding  the  bay  mare  with  a  sore 
back.  It  delayed  them  three  days  in  one  camp.  But 
his  temper  always  quickly  reacted  into  an  exuberant 
cheer ;  and  at  times  when  the  packs  had  shifted  near  the 
end  of  a  desperate  day,  and  Gail  would  be  swearing 
under  his  breath,  Bob,  pulling  at  a  girth,  would  steel 
himself,  contract  his  eyelids  as  with  an  amazing  mirth- 
fulness.  Behind  all,  he  had  leadership,  and  an  inhu- 
man, fervid  energy  born  of  his  ambition. 

Yet  under  his  broad  hat  and  black  head-net,  Snow- 
den's  angular  features  had  lost  their  rosiness,  become 
drawn  and  pale.  The  quizzical  furrows  across  his  fore- 
head had  deepened,  his  shiny  hair  had  lost  its  curl. 
His  features  more  than  ever  seemed  out  of  keeping  with 
his  strong  limbs  and  lithe,  broad-shouldered  frame. 
His  jaw  muscles  would  twitch  habitually.  Whereas 
Gail,  wearing  no  hat,  scorning  a  mosquito  net  because 
it  blinded  Ihim,  and  fighting  the  swarms  with  "bare 
hands,  had  grown  bronzed  and  sinewy.  Neither  shoul- 
der sagged  now.  Bob  had  begun  to  be  made  sick  by 


102       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

smoking.     Gail  lately  smoked  Bob's  briar  pipe  inces- 
santly. 

As  they  waited  for  Jonesy  to  round  up  the  horses, 
Gail  recalled  to  himself  the  day  that  they  had  crossed 
Atna  River,  far  above  Lamar's  camp  at  the  disputed 
townsite  of  Torlina.  The  Idaho  dry-farmers,  led  by 
John  Hartline,  were  at  their  claims  on  the  upper  Chyta. 
Then,  gazing  down  the  river's  brown  sweep  and  foam- 
ing boulders,  deep  in  its  gorge  between  panelled  ter- 
races, his  unforgettable  image  of  Clara  —  so  wild  and 
pure,  self-sufficient,  animal-like  —  dimmed  by  the  bat- 
tle of  the  trail,  sprang  out  with  an  unwonted  tender- 
ness. It  had  seized  him  that  in  the  final  panic  aboard 
the  Seward,  she  had  not  revealed  her  surname.  He 
had  wondered  what  sort  of  touchstone  the  North  had 
become  to  her  love  for  Lamar  and  his  purposes,  to  her 
own  conscience.  And  he  had  failed  to  tell  her  he  was 
not  free.  They  must  meet  again;  thus  he  despaired. 
For  avowedly  he  had  dared  to  conceive  Clara  as  the 
one  incarnation,  through  which  he  should  ever  reach 
the  goal  of  all  that  life  meant  to  him. 

But  Gail  met  Snowden  upon  an  instinctive,  confiden- 
tial plane  of  sympathy  and  understanding,  although 
Bob  often  seemed  patronising  to  Jonesy.  Yet  from  none 
of  their  long  talks  together  could  Gail  now  remember 
any  self-revealing  word.  Bob  had  never  explained  fur- 
ther the  deeper  meaning  of  his  passion  for  mountain- 
climbing,  which  he  had  deferred  telling  of  in  their  first 
talk.  In  all  this  galling  two  months  on  the  trail, 
neither  one  had  testified  to  any  consuming  desire. 


At  last  Jonesy's  grey  head,  under  his  narrow-brimmed 
black  felt  hat,  emerged  over  the  dip  of  the  trail.     He 


SUICIDE    JONESY  103 

approached  walking  stodgily,  dragging  his  feet  after 
him,  and  with  his  chin  dug  into  his  chest. 

Reaching  the  fire,  he  raised  his  face  with  hesitation. 
It  was  altogether  flushed  now,  and  his  eyes  blinked. 
He  braced  himself,  bit  off  a  cheekful  of  tobacco,  vio- 
lently, from  his  plug,  and  thrusting  a  leg  forward 
glared  at  Gail  and  Bob  in  a  kind  of  defiant  silence. 

"  You  didn't  find  the  horses  ?  "  asked  Snowden  in 
surprise.  "  You've  never  failed  yet." 

Jonesy's  features  blanched,  and  their  hard  lines  stood 
out.  "  I'll  show  you,"  he  said  with  a  rising,  truculent 
inflection.  "  Come  on." 

He  swung  about  and  started  down  the  trail  at  a 
quick,  jerky  pace.  Gail  and  Bob,  exchanging  an  ap- 
prehensive glance,  followed,  and  soon  found  themselves 
running,  with  a  stiffness  from  their  two  hours  in  camp, 
to  keep  up  with  him.  The  trail  dropped  sharply 
through  a  narrow  gully  and  came  out  upon  a  flat  nub 
of  disintegrating  granite.  A  slope  of  lush  grass  and 
waxy  white  flowers  reached  upward  toward  organ-pipe 
cliffs ;  but  under  the  sheer  precipice  at  their  feet,  swam 
the  slopes  of  ribbed  rock  and  shattered  spires  which 
they  had  climbed,  beating  and  hallooing  at  the  horses, 
switch-backing,  threading  a  way  from  the  strip  of  desert 
below,  the  filaments  of  whose  stream  now  bore  a  tarnished 
glint  as  they  gazed  awedly  down  upon  it. 

The  soft  shale  edging  the  granite  was  covered  with 
hoof-prints ;  but  no  horses  were  visible  in  the  grass 
and  willows  along  the  base  of  the  cliff  rising  be- 
hind. 

"  I  don't  see  them  anywhere,"  said  Gail  vacantly. 

"  They've  made  a  quick  trip  back  to  that  timber," 
snapped  Bob. 

Jonesy,  as  if  deaf  to  them,  gave  a  hollow,  rattling 


104       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

sound  in  his  throat.  They  waited,  wide-eyed,  for  him  to 
speak. 

"  Now  we've  seen  them  horses,  haven't  we,  navigatin' 
rock-slides  ?  "  he  began  at  length,  half  drawling,  half 
whining.  "  How  they  nicker  a-f  ore  any  resky  step, 
knowing  what's  safe  and  what  ain't  when  we  don't? 
You've  clung  to  their  packs  in  the  middle  of  rivers, 
while  the  rocks  ripped  along  under  water  bangin'  their 
legs.  I've  seen  you  boys  wig  their  ears  to  steer  them 
out  of  a  rapid  into  a  back-eddy,  turning  around  to  me 
with  your  mouths  open  and  your  eyes  stickin'  out,  as 
if  you  seen  the  Angel  o'  Death.  But  they've  always 
landed  you  safe,  except  Gail  once,  haven't  they?  You 
can't  fool  cayuses,  God  bless  'em.  You  got  to  beat  'em, 
wallop  'em,  into  danger,  the  same  as  across  a  quicksand 
or  mud-hole — "  he  broke  off,  gasping  for  breath. 

Bob  and  Gail  pressed  closer  to  him,  as  he  stood  there 
trembling  on  the  nub  of  rock,  leaning  over  farther  and 
farther,  peering  into  the  shadowy  void.  Snowden  laid 
a  friendly,  restraining  hand  on  his  shoulder.  The  skin 
of  Gail's  scalp  began  to  pucker,  and  he  felt  all  his  mus- 
cles stiffen  involuntarily. 

"  So  I  don't  understand  — "  went  on  Jonesy,  choking 
back  a  whimper. 

He  sank  upon  his  knees,  and  one  of  his  hands  began 
groping,  like  a  blind  man's,  over  the  surface  of  the 
granite.  "  Unless  there's  something  in  this  kind  of 
rock,  sort  of  lying  and  treacherous-like,  even  to  a  horse, 
so  his  instinct —  Because  they  was  standing  last  at 
the  edge  of  this.  You  can  see  by  their  tracks." 

Snowden's  eyes  were  following  the  man's  shaking  fin- 
gers. They  stopped  at  a  line  that  ran  straight  across 
the  ledge,  dividing  it  on  the  near  side  into  a  browned 
and  weathered  surface,  but  on  the  far  into  one  that  was 


SUICIDE    JONESY  105 

clean  and  flinty,  glittering  with  mica  and  pink  as 
flesh. 

"Great  God!  It's  the  whole  cliff  that's  broken  off 
with  them ! "  cried  Bob,  springing  back  as  if  he  had 
been  struck  with  a  lash.  "  Over  —  they've  gone  over 
—  every  one  of  them." 

"Killed  then?"  muttered  Gail,  dully.  "Can't  we 
see  them?" 

Jonesy,  slowly  rising,  fronted  their  amazement. 
His  face  stood  out  corded,  white.  "  No.  Oh,  no.  Not 
killed,"  he  said  with  a  dreadful,  falsetto  huskiness. 
"  They  just  floated  straight  acrost  to  them  ledges  op- 
posite, on  the  wings  they  keep  folded  round  their 
haunches." 

"  Quit  that  tone !  "  broke  in  Snowden.     "  Stop  it !  " 

"  But  sure.  Can't  you  see  them  ?  "  kept  on  Jonesy, 
whining  again.  "  They  bunched  up  here,  looking  fer 
a  way  down.  An'  there  they  are !  " 

He  lifted  an  arm  from  his  side,  stiffly,  until  it  indi- 
cated a  point  in  the  depths  along  the  river,  which  now 
was  the  hue  of  steel. 

Gail  and  Snowden  crouched  forward,  shading  their 
eyes,  breathing  hard,  with  fingers  spread  taut  upon  the 
granite. 

"  Yes.  I  see  them,  lying  there,"  muttered  Bob  in  a 
hollow  tone.  "  They  don't  move." 

"  You  can  make  out  the  buckskin,"  added  Gail,  his 
voice  hushed,  straining  his  eyes. 

"  Buck !  My  buck ! "  wailed  Jonesy,  rigid  as  a 
statue. 

"  And  one  is  smaller  than  the  rest,  though  the  same 
colour.  It  looks  like  his  head." 

Jonesy  burst  into  a  chattering  laugh. 

"  Snapped  off'n  him,  like  an  apple  from  the  end  of  a 


106       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

stick,"  he  chuckled.  "Oh,  it's  fine  —  fine  — ain't  it? 
What  ken  a  man  do  now?  What  next,  you  stutterin' 
dudes?" 

m 

His  companions  shrank  from  him,  silenced. 

Jonesy,  for  whom  in  the  bitter  weeks  along  the  Chyta 
trail,  in  moments  when  progress  seemed  hopeless  and  the 
outfit  doomed,  each  mishap  had  been  but  a  signal  to 
meet  the  crisis  calmly,  with  the  strong  deftness  born  of 
long  experience  in  the  North  —  brushing  away  defeat 
with  the  drag  of  an  arm  upon  a  halter,  the  quick  ad- 
justment of  a  pack,  and  a  guffaw  to  mark  his  triumph 
—  now  was  clouded  by  the  helpless,  questioning  de- 
pendence that  had  vitiated  Gail.  And  Snowden,  who 
at  such  times  had  plunged  in  and  ripped  through  dis- 
aster like  an  engine  running  wild,  instantly  faced  this 
first  tragedy  of  the  trail  with  Jonesy's  usual  stolidity, 
and  a  placid  hardihood  implanted  by  the  land. 

He  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  Thank  God  we're  in  here,  and  their  loss  can't  throw 
us  now ! "  he  exclaimed,  squaring  his  shoulders  and 
hitching  his  corduroys.  "  It  only  means  two  days' 
back-packing  for  all  hands,  along  this  shelf  and  over 
to  the  main  glacier  by  the  pass  we've  spotted." 

"But  there's  getting  back,  isn't  there?"  wondered 
Gail.  "  After  we've  climbed  the  mountain." 

"  We  could  foot  it  in  a  week  from  here  with  enough 
grub  to  make  Hartline's  cache  at  the  Chyta  forks,"  said 
Bob.  "  By  then  his  crowd  ought  to  be  reaching  there 
on  the  way  out  from  their  claims.  If  we  do  get  to  the 
top,  I  guess  we  can  stand  a  little  trip  like  that." 

It  occurred  to  Gail  that  he  was  assuming  success  in 
the  climb,  while  Bob  conditioned  it.  This  amazed  him. 


SUICIDE    JONESY  107 

"  And  look  here,"  Gail  ventured.  "  We  finished  that 
last  fishy  bear  steak  yesterday.  If  we  climb  down  and 
cut  off  a  good  chunk  of  that  horse-meat,  wouldn't  it  be 
nourishing  to  eat  up  there  on  the  ice?  " 

He  found  himself  speaking  not  quite  seriously,  partly 
in  droll  .surprise  that  an  idea  had  occurred  to  him  at  all. 
And  it  seemed  to  sound  like  a  rebuke  to  Jonesy  for  his 
collapse.  Also,  he  realised  that  he  would  have  no  re- 
vulsion to  eating  horse-flesh. 

Snowden  was  starting  to  talk  of  paying  Jonesy  for 
his  lost  pack-train,  when  the  latter,  still  glaring  trans- 
fixed across  the  abyss,  turned  upon  them. 

"  You  hounds  !  You  cannibals !  "  he  flung  out.  "  I 
guess  you  don't  know  nothing  about  traveling  in  this 
country.  A  man  can't  no  more  eat  his  horses,  or  even 
kill  them  when  they're  bound  to  starve,  than  his  own 
flesh  and  blood.  And  L'amar  ain't  got  the  money  to 
settle  for  my  buck.  Yer  all  the  same,  you  yeller-legs." 

He  burst  into  a  man's  deep,  racking  sobs. 

Bob  plucked  Gail  by  the  shoulder,  and  with  a  look 
toward  Jonesy  of  mingled  compassion  and  alarm,  nod- 
ded in  the  direction  of  the  tent. 

And  as  they  two  started  back,  Gail  began  to  feel 
somehow  stimulated  by  the  man's  prostration  and  out- 
burst. He  had  an  unwelcome,  brutal  sense  that  men 
deserved  the  pain  of  their  misfortunes.  "  But  I  didn't 
half  mean  what  I  said,"  he  exclaimed  to  Bob,  as  they 
dragged  their  feet  up  the  soft  scree  close  to  camp. 
Glancing  back  once  or  twice,  they  had  seen  Jonesy 
slowly  following  them,  pausing  occasionally.  He 
seemed  to  be  listening  to  some  airy  voice,  to  peer  over 
the  precipice,  to  jerk  backward  from  it,  as  if  the  spirits 
of  his  dead  animals  were  rising  to  pursue  him. 

"  Gail,  we  don't  understand  what  their  horses  mean  to 


108       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

men  in  this  country,"  said  Bob.  "  This  break  of 
Jonesy's  only  draws  me  closer  to  him." 

Gail  thought  for  a  moment.  "  The  same  here.  But 
today  I'm  feeling  things  beside  sympathy,"  he  said, 
earnestly.  He  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  scorn  that 
tinged  his  pity.  Although  at  the  second  of  the  grim 
discovery  his  heart  had  gone  out  to  Jonesy  more  warmly 
for  the  mere  loss  of  his  buckskin  horse,  than  to  the 
Irishman  on  the  Seattle  dock  for  the  blight  of  his  whole 
life,  Gail  could  not  subdue  a  sensation  of  superiority, 
as  if  he  had  sustained  a  triumph,  which  was  the  reward 
of  all  his  sullen  forbearance  for  weeks. 

"  But  I  can't  get  over  it,"  he  said.  "  Our  long  tus- 
sle on  the  trail  was  only  a  joke  to  him,  and  then  he's 
made  a  croaker  this  way." 

Gail  continued  to  ponder  the  man's  infallible  efficiency 
in  a  new  light.  It  seemed  to  partake  of  pride  in  the 
service  of  some  hallowed  vow.  He  began  to  see  behind 
the  dry  humour  of  Jonesy's  talk  about  their  camp-fires, 
when  lighting  his  corn-cob  he  had  drawled  of  his  early 
days  as  a  barroom  pug  in  Omaha,  as  a  paid  foot-ball 
player,  a  race-track  tout,  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  gymnasium 
teacher ;  of  the  "  rush  "  days  of  1898,  when  a  Mrs. 
Batty  who  ran  a  tea-tent  on  Valdez  Glacier  called  a 
miner's  meeting,  while  men  were  falling  through  crev- 
asses and  freezing  to  death  by  the  dozen,  to  grant  her 
friend  Mrs.  Johnson  a  divorce. 

"  He  always  took  some  things  hard,"  Bob  echoed 
Gail's  thoughts.  "  You  remember  how  gloomy,  but 
never  mad,  he'd  get  over  Lamar's  squeezing  the  Hart- 
line  boys  out  of  their  Atna  stake?  And  the  way  he 
used  to  roast  Alaska  by  calling  it  all  a  salted  claim  as  a 
poor  man's  country,  and  say,  *  But  what's  a  man  to  do 
that  hasn't  even  got  the  price  to  get  out  of  it? ' " 


SUICIDE    JONESY  109 

"  Look  here.  Did  he  ever  tell  you  what  he  tried  to 
kill  himself  for?  "  asked  Gail.  "  Do  you  suppose  for  a 
woman,  the  one  whose  picture  he  wears  on  that  button 
in  the  lapel  of  his  mackinaw?  " 

"That's  his  wife.  But  it  wasn't  for  her,"  said  Bob. 
"  I  asked  him  that  flat  once,  and  he  denied  it." 

"  A  man  wonders  what  he  gets  out  of  life,"  said  Gail. 

u  I  believe  that  at  bottom  he's  more  of  a  dreamer 
than  either  of  us,"  hinted  Bob  with  a  sidelong  glance. 

"  That  would  account  for  him  today,  after  all  his  good 
work  on  the  trail."  He  paused,  adding,  "  But  perhaps 
he's  got  all  that  living  could  offer  him,  or  given  up 
hope." 

"  If  he's  failed  in  the  North  I  should  hate  to  be  him," 
reflected  Gail.  "  He's  cut  to  measure  for  this  coun- 
try." 

This  was  a  repellent  thought,  but  it  did  not  depress 
Gail.  At  least  it  was  another  idea  of  his  own.  Other 
men  too,  then,  the  seeming  elect  of  the  youngest  world, 
were  denied  attainment  in  it  through  the  weaknesses 
inherent  in  their  dreams.  Indeed,  all  fellowship  that 
he  had  observed  since  his  despair  in  Seattle,  except  his 
own  with  Bob,  had  been  conditioned  upon  failure.  But 
Bob's  spirit  was  invincible. 

IV 

At  the  tent  they  turned.  The  watery  purple  of  the 
tundra  had  flooded  the  valley,  darkened  the  drear  river 
bed,  and  was  welling  upward  through  the  void  in  a  tide 
that  robed  its  cliffs  with  translucent  zones  of  colour. 
The  snow  clouds  had  lifted,  stiffened,  powdered  with 
gold  in  the  sunset  radiance  of  the  upper  sky,  leaving 
the  toothed  peaks  a  stark,  deep  rose  against  its  utter 
polish,  On  up  the  valley,  the  walls  bore  scarlet  gashes, 


110       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

ledges  of  a  shiny,  jet-like  blackness,  which  converged 
around  a  titanic  cataract  of  brown  and  rotting  ice. 
This  lifted,  disentangled  itself,  into  a  wide,  corrugated 
avenue  that  bore  on  its  bosom,  like  two  ribbed  snakes, 
the  twisting  courses  of  twin  medial  moraines.  Then, 
flung  straight  south,  and  cutting  at  right  angles  the 
wall  to  which  they  clung,  ran  a  smooth  white  haunch, 
like  half  a  pointed  arch,  sloping  down  upon  a  hidden 
gulf  below  the  glacier.  And  upward  across  its  dim 
snowfields,  strained  ragged  shreds  and  streaming  cur- 
tains of  opal  mist,  as  if  seething  aflame,  yet  motionless. 
Between  them  and  the  upper  cloud,  in  a  bright  line  over 
the  top  of  the  haunch,  sprang  out  the  focus  of  all  the 
dying  light.  The  sun,  slanting  through  upon  the 
veiled  blue  fields  of  the  higher  ice,  was  reflected  upward 
in  a  dazzling  line  of  silvery  azure,  which  shone  like  a 
lamp  through  a  V-shaped  nick  near  the  top  of  the 
arched  slope. 

This  cut  was  the  pass  over  to  the  upper  glacier  which 
Bob  had  spoken  of,  toward  the  northwestern  spur  of  Mt. 
Lincoln  —  marked  on  the  map  but  still  unseen  —  which 
arose  from  the  heart  of  the  high  ice-fields. 

Behind  them  a  sparrow  began  pouring  out  thin, 
treble  notes ;  and  from  a  crag  glowing  overhead  the 
stillness  was  magnified  by  the  woodeny  "  tuck-chick-a- 
chick  "  of  a  flock  of  ptarmigan. 

"  Our  trail,"  said  Bob  quietly,  pointing  to  the  V- 
shaped  slit,  with  a  deep  breath.  "  Horses  or  no 
horses." 

"Can't  you  forget  those  brutes?"  broke  out  Gail. 
"  It's  only  four  miles  on  foot  up  to  that  pass.  And 
we're  good  for  over  and  down  the  other  side  with  half 
the  mountain  outfit  in  a  day." 

Bob  turned  on  him,  narrowing  his  eyelids.     "  What's 


SUICIDE    JONESY  111 

struck  you,  man  ?  "  he  said.     "  You  never  used  to  talk 
that  way." 

Gail  felt  the  blood  rush  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 
"  Well,  I'm  hot  for  it,"  he  answered.  "  It's  about  time 
for  me  to  prove  something  on  this  trip." 


Inside  the  tent  Snowden  set  to  work  in  the  disorder 
of  grub  sacks,  clothing,  and  blankets  to  make  up  the 
back-packs  for  the  morrow.  He  drew  forth  objects 
heretofore  hidden  in  the  bottoms  of  dunnage  bags  — 
aluminum  dishes,  an  alcohol  stove,  black  snow-glasses, 
brass  instruments  in  cases.  Gail  pitched  in  and  helped 
him  with  a  will.  They  divided  equally  for  three  ruck- 
sacks, cutting  off  their  unnecessary  straps  and  buckles, 
discarding  all  superfluous  weight,  condensed  milk  cans, 
chocolate,  pea-meal,  tea  and  sugar,  and  the  bread  baked 
at  the  last  timber  in  the  valley.  Gail  with  the  axe 
hacked  open  a  long  blue  tin  of  pemmican. 

At  length  Jonesy  entered  the  tent  without  speaking, 
his  face  still  ashen,  his  lips  twisted.  His  eyes  avoided 
Gail  and  Bob.  He  threw  himself  on  the  blankets  in 
his  corner,  and,  clearing  a  place  among  the  duffle, 
chewed  a  quid  so  that  his  jaw  cracked,  spitting  violently 
on  the  moss  every  second. 

Tonight  for  the  first  time  on  the  trail  he  did  not 
light  his  corn-cob  and  drawl  about  the  early  days  in 
Valdez,  or  the  avarice  of  Lamar,  or  narrate  how  Bris- 
tow,  the  English  sportsman  whom  he  had  once  packed 
for,  had  wanted  to  shoot  a  mired  pinto  horse. 

When  the  outfit  was  ready,  Bob  and  Gail  turned  into 
their  blankets,  each  taking  one  of  the  tattered  maga- 
zines that  they  had  brought  along.  They  had  read 
every  story  in  them  a  dozen  times,  and  now  restlessly 


112       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

pawed  over  the  advertising  pages.  An  expectant  ten- 
sion seemed  to  have  invaded  the  tent.  The  lonely,  sea- 
shell  murmur  of  the  river  far  below  began  to  punctuate 
the  brawl  of  the  stream  outside  with  a  somnolent  irregu- 
larity. 

"  Breakfast  at  five,  eh?  "  uttered  Gail,  finally,  as  if 
the  thought  was  a  climax  to  his  long  distraction.  "  We 
ought  to  get  off  in  an  hour." 

Bob  did  not  answer.  Jonesy,  hunching  his  shoul- 
ders, emitted  a  sigh,  and,  without  turning  his  face  from 
the  tent  wall,  said,  "  I  see  you  made  three  packs,  boys. 
I  hope  it  wa'n't  too  much  trouble.  I'd  hate  ever  to 
hinder  you  again." 

Moved  by  the  resignation  of  his  tone,  Gail  raised 
himself  on  an  elbow,  and  peered  at  him  over  Bob,  who 
lay  between  them.  Snowden  was  asleep,  breathing 
heavily.  Gail  sank  back,  a  troubled  look  on  his  face, 
and  in  a  moment  Jonesy's  stertorous  breathing  chimed 
in,  uneasy,  gasping. 

VI 

But  Gail  was  not  sleepy.  For  the  first  time  in  the 
untrodden  spaces,  he  felt  curiously  alert  and  vital.  He 
missed  the  sound  of  the  horse  bells  around  camp.  Their 
absence  created  a  void  into  which  his  loosened  thoughts 
poured.  His  mind,  usually  blank  at  evening,  began  to 
fill  with  recollections  and  images  of  the  hateful  jour- 
ney. But  all  sense  of  discomfort  and  sullenness  had 
vanished  from  them,  shuffled  off  like  evil  dreams.  Life 
seemed  to  be  again  drawing  to  an  inspiriting  focus,  as 
it  had  on  that  Sunday  in  the  train,  riding  down  from 
the  strawberry  fields.  And  as  then  his  musings  set  into 
a  seethe. 

The  gurgle  of  water  among  the  willows,  the  delicate 


SUICIDE    JONESY  113 

bourdon  from  the  stirring  desolation  of  the  valley, 
sharpened  upon  his  ears,  recalling  as  keenly  the  roar 
and  foam  of  glacier  torrents  that  he  had  crossed,  the 
shrill  hum  of  mosquitoes,  the  night  wind  swishing  the 
slim  spruces  of  the  North.  The  glow  of  dusky  pink 
that  yet  stained  the  encircling  peaks  appeared  to  illu- 
mine and  dissolve  the  white  tent  walls ;  to  reveal  the  lim- 
itless indigo  of  the  tundra;  to  conjure  up  as  vividly 
long  vistas  of  ranges  the  hue  of  amethyst  that  he  had 
traversed.  He  saw  the  tawny  floods  deep  in  river 
gorges,  where  along  wide  bars  under  oval  clay-banks 
the  lint. from  giant  cottonwoods  filled  the  air  as  with 
snow,  and  dark  roses  sprang  flowering  from  the  im- 
palpable silt.  He  was  back  in  high  park-like  stretches, 
quite  vacant,  yet  trim,  as  if  well  settled,  where  feathery 
grasses  rippled,  and  the  transparent  leaves  of  aspens 
sizzled  in  the  tremor  of  dawn.  He  smelt  birch-bark, 
burning  in  the  gloom  of  camps  under  the  bright  vault  of 
heaven  at  midnight. 

The  idea  touched  Gail  that  in  some  manner  his  self 
had  become  a  part  of  all  such  places,  and  their  exist- 
ence hung  upon  his  own,  upon  Jonesy  and  Bob. 
That  frenzied  labour  of  the  trail,  which  had  swollen  their 
knuckles  and  gashed  their  hands,  thinned  the  cords  of 
their  necks,  and,  with  smarting  eyes,  had  drawn  their 
faces  livid,  all  had  lost  its  venom.  Likewise  had  those 
sights  at  which  his  heart  always  hardened:  The 
goaded  horses  floundering  neck-deep  into  mossy  ponds 
edged  with  white  flowers,  to  be  roped  and  prodded  out, 
kicking  mud  and  slime;  repacked.  And  the  weary  de- 
spair of  nights  in  soaked  blankets,  when  the  mosquito 
hordes  burrowed  under  the  "  proof  "  tent  skirt,  until 
the  suffocating  walls  were  black  with  them.  They  had 
stampeded  the  tortured  cayuses  to  wreck  the  guys  and 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

clatter  among  the  dishes,  driven  them  into  the  smudge 
fires  to  burn  their  hoofs.  Ever  those  hounding  insects. 
Amid  rainy  swamps  of  dead,  dwarf  evergreens  threaded 
by  old  moose  trails,  he  had  mashed  them  into  his  neck 
until  it  was  raw  from  their  poison.  Or  in  the  sunny 
stillness,  heavy  with  the  acrid  smell  of  crushed  Lab- 
rador tea,  buzzing  clouds  of  bull-dog  flies  had  swarmed 
on  the  horses'  wethers  so  that  the  blood  streamed  down. 

Gail  knew  that  a  time  would  come  when  he  should 
look  back  upon  those  days  and  smile.  The  enchant- 
ment of  distance !  It  effaced  pain  no  less  than  it  reared 
mirages  of  aspiration.  Yet  he  was  not  to  be  deceived 
by  the  deceit  that  lurks  in  every  dream.  Only  his  love 
for  Clara  was  immutable. 

He  found  himself  shivering,  as  though  under  some 
excitement;  as  if  shocked  by  the  acuteness  of  his  feel- 
ings. Idle  words  passed  with  Bob,  forgotten  gleams 
of  heartless  curiosity  toward  the  fortunes  of  Lena  and 
Madge,  clustered  within  his  head.  He  had  not  told 
Bob  of  having  been  to  college  until  they  reached  Hart- 
line's  cache ;  and  then  Snowden  had  said  gravely,  "  Yes, 
but  it's  a  better  thing  to  get  over."  Yet  he  could  not 
hold  the  spur  of  Jonesy's  breakdown,  and  their  wonder 
about  his  past,  responsible  for  all  the  fervour  of  this 
new  awakening.  Gradually  Gail  felt  it  centring  in  a 
consuming  worry  that  cloud  and  snow  might  check  their 
next  day's  advance.  Except  as  a  grim  task  in  which 
strength  must  be  conserved  for  his  manhood's  sake,  he 
had  not  on  the  trail  considered  the  fulness  of  Bob's 
quest.  It  had  been  enough  for  Gail,  wolfishly  hungry 
each  night,  to  drug  himself  to  sleep  with  beans  and 
bannock,  assured  of  his  bodily  vitality  to  survive  the 
next  day,  with  a  sluggish  jealousy  of  his  companions' 
quicker  mastery  of  each  dilemma,  and  a  pride  that  he 


SUICIDE    JONESY  115 

had  so  easily  kept  his  temper.  But  now  a  penetration 
into  the  reasons  and  rewards  of  mountain-climbing,  as 
Bob  must  view  them,  occupied  and  disturbed  Gail.  He 
was  moved  by  flashing  thoughts  that  other  resources, 
besides  one's  nerve  and  muscle,  more  than  of  will  and 
pluck,  must  be  called  upon  to  win  such  a  goal  as  ab- 
sorbed Snowden. 

His  misgiving  that  vanity,  and  some  itch  peculiar  to 
Bob's  birth  and  raising  ruled  him,  vanished  tonight. 
Gail  saw  as  in  a  mirror  what  on  the  steamer  he  had 
taken  from  Bob  on  faith:  that  as  a  defiant  game,  as 
a  fight  against  the  extreme  menaces  of  Nature,  to  reach 
the  top  of  Lincoln  must  be  a  test  of  worthiness  to  sur- 
vive in  this  most  ruthless  land.  Yet  more  than  courage 
in  its  manifold  guises  had  served  Bob  with  a  magic 
potency,  quelling  his  impatience  and  chagrin  at  rebuffs 
and  disaster,  holding  him  ever  the  leader  when  his  phy- 
sique seemed  to  be  collapsing.  Snowden  had  some 
transcendent,  all-conquering  idea  behind  his  zeal. 
Could  it  be  likened  to  Gail's  own? 

Here  his  speculation  stopped  short,  as  it  usually  did 
when  he  weighed  the  motives  of  other  men.  Yet  what- 
ever this  ruling  ecstasy  was,  it  should  sway  him  in 
Bob's  behalf.  For  Bob's  struggle  also  challenged  the 
purpose  of  his  own  aim  to  search  the  yearnings  and  de- 
spairs of  all  men  in  the  Youngest  World.  It  might  de- 
mand of  him  at  some  crucial  moment  close  at  hand, 
when  life  hung  in  the  balance,  a  dauntless  valour  here- 
tofore unconceived  in  his  remotest  broodings. 

He  trembled,  with  unformulable  apprehensions.  Far 
down  the  valley  a  landslide  rumbled  no  louder  than  a 
whisper.  Now  and  then  a  rending  sound  faint  as  the 
crackle  of  a  twig,  though  it  seemed  to  impregnate  the 
whole  earth's  crust,  imaged  behind  his  drooping  eye- 


116       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

lids  a  crevasse  opening  across  the  ghostly  wastes  of 
ice  above.  A  slight  wind  arose,  furtively  bulging,  now 
out,  now  inward,  the  pale  tent  walls.  His  swollen 
tongue  swallowed  floods  of  saliva,  until  sleep  began  to 
dull  the  throbbing  in  his  temples  and  cool  the  moisture 
of  his  palms. 

vn 

An  exclamation,  then  a  tug  at  his  blankets,  awakened 
Gail.  Bob  in  his  grey  sweater,  just  sitting  upright, 
his  thin  mouth  twitching  in  anger,  was  pointing  to  the 
empty  space  along  the  wall  where  Jonesy  had  spread 
his  blankets. 

"Gone.  Sneaked  in  the  night,"  he  ejaculated. 
"  Quit  us.  And  we  never  heard  him." 

They  faced  one  another,  and  as  their  eyes  met,  the 
amazement  cleared  from  them.  They  brightened,  realis- 
ing the  added  exactions  of  their  fellowship. 

"  I  half  suspected  last  night  — "  began  Gail,  with  a 
casualness  surprising  to  himself.  "  I  believe  he  never 
intended  to  climb  with  us,  anyhow." 

Snowden  snapped  his  lean  jaw. 

"  I  should  hate  to  think  that,"  he  said  gently,  as  the 
wrinkles  smoothed  from  his  forehead.  "  And  yet, 
Gail—" 

"  Then  let's  head  him  off,"  said  Gail,  but  he  did  not 
stir  from  his  bed. 

Snowden  laughed  mirthlessly.  "  The  man's  ten  miles 
down  the  valley  by  now,  and  still  hiking,"  he  said. 
"  What  grub  did  he  take?  > 

He  sprang  from  his  blankets,  and  thrust  his  head 
through  the  tent  flap.  "  So  we're  alone,"  Gail  heard 
him  say,  in  a  tone  that  was  reassuring  for  all  its 
melancholy. 


SUICIDE    JONESY  117 

"  He's  no  more  use  to  us  now  than  his  horses,  is  he?  " 
asked  Gail,  an  involuntary  mockery  tingeing  his  voice. 
He  seemed  to  be  held  there,  wondering.  Bob  slipped 
outside. 

"  I  told  you  once  a  man  must  have  enthusiasm  for  a 
job  like  this,"  came  his  voice,  vigorous  now,  from  with- 
out. "  A  do-or-die,  unreasonable  *  bug.'  And  after 
all,  Jonesy  hadn't." 

"  No,  up  there  he  couldn't  be  the  ace  he  has  been," 
said  Gail  vaguely;  but  his  irony,  toward  Bob  at  least, 
was  impersonal. 

"  We  depended  too  much  on  him.  He  could  never 
understand,"  Bob  confessed  restlessly.  "  That's  all 
wrong  in  a  game  like  this." 

His  assumption  of  their  united  spirit,  under  the  ab- 
stract, all-powerful  goad  to  reach  the  top  of  Lincoln, 
stirred  Gail.  He  felt  a  qualm  of  awe  at  their  abjection 
to  its  spell.  Bob's  blindness,  in  its  mastery,  to  Jonesy 
as  the  paragon  of  yesterday,  touched  him  as  inhuman. 

"  It's  the  same  to  us  as  if  he'd  entered  into  the  flesh 
and  bones  of  his  old  buckskin,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Gail  simply, 
as  before. 

"What  made  you  think  that?"  shot  back  Bob. 
"  Maybe  we're  at  the  show-down  of  the  mystery  about 
him,  of  the  play  he  made  against  himself.  Do  you 
think  we  ought  to  look  —  down  over  there?" 

Unseen  to  one  another,  their  mouths  parted  in  fear. 
But  an  irresolution  appeared  to  seize  them  both.  Gail 
glared  around  the  tent. 

"No  —  not  that,"  he  said,  aroused  at  a  discovery. 
"  I  see  he's  taken  enough  grub,  near  half  our  reserve 
pemmican.  That  'ud  take  him  to  Hartline's  camp. 
A  man  going  to  kill  himself  don't  do  that." 

"What?     The  thief!"  broke  out  Bob.     But  a  brief 


118       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

silence  compassed  his  anger.  "  Still,  we  ought  to  have 
enough,"  he  added. 

Gail  heard  him  rattling  the  dishes,  and  soon  the 
crackle  of  the  dry  willow  that  they  had  packed  up  from 
the  valley  to  start  the  fire  with. 

"  Look  at  this,"  came  Bob's  voice,  as  he  thrust  his 
hand  through  the  flap.  Gail  took  the  slip  of  paper 
in  it.  "  I  found  her  stuck  in  the  coffee-pot,"  said  Bob. 
Gail  read: 

Being  contracted  to  you  I  feel  obligated  to  say  as  follows: 
I  had  a  daughter  once  and  the  Buck  belonged  to  her.  He  kilt 
her  in  the  Rush  of  '98.  It  was  a  kick  while  we  was  breaking 
him  on  Valdez  beach.  It  want  his  fault  for  he  didn't  know  no 
better  and  her  dying  words  forgive  him.  She  was  stuck  on  that 
horse.  That  was  what  made  me  foolish  once  for  she  was  all  I 
had.  But  I  ain't  going  to  be  so  again.  Then  I  begun  to  be  crazy 
enough  to  think  he  kept  a-living  in  her  place  because  she  couldn't 
ever  die  for  me.  But  a  man  on  your  job  needs  a  different  sort 
of  craziness  to  mine.  Still  I  hope  you  get  there  and  will  give  a 
good  account  of  you  along  the  trail. 

"  That  tells  all  about  him ;  too  much,"  said  Gail 
thickly,  as  the  likeness  to  his  own  tragedy  overcame  him. 
"  Unfair  to  him,  that's  what  I've  been."  Controlling 
himself,  he  plunged  out  of  the  tent. 

"  Yes.  If  he's  steadfast  like  that,  I'd  like  to  have 
given  him  his  chance  on  the  mountain.  He  might  after 
all—" 

"  He's  got  more  call  there  than  me,"  muttered  Gail, 
gazing  down  toward  the  desert  stream,  now  a  chalky 
green,  as  it  ringed  its  boulders  with  collars  of  foam. 

"  Let's  us  —  let's  not  talk  of  him,"  said  Bob,  serenely. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  FIRST  SURRENDER 


ALL  the  morning  Gail  and  Bob  toiled  as  if  they  were 
in  a  treadmill,  each  under  his  forty  pound  pack  of  bread, 
pemmican,  tarpaulins,  stove,  camera,  and  the  can  of 
alcohol.  With  bowed  heads,  they  paced  out  the  four 
miles  rising  eastward  along  their  shelf.  Gail  covered 
Bob's  track  foot-print  for  foot-print,  close  behind  him. 
They  would  thump  their  packs  upon  the  bleached,  rock- 
strewn  moss,  resting  against  them  silently,  or  in  hushed 
voices  uttering  hopes  and  forebodings  about  the 
weather. 

A  raw  wind  sucked  up  the  valley.  A  low  ceiling  of 
flat,  ribbed  cloud  beheaded  the  upper  crags  of  each 
wall,  as  if  it  had  dissolved  them,  like  some  potent  acid. 
The  river  traced  dim  skeins  upon  its  sterile  bed,  from 
which  an  infrequent,  wavering  murmur  filtered  upward. 
A  filminess  blurred  the  sanguine  hues  of  the  cliffs,  and 
between  their  culmination  at  the  end  of  the  valley,  out 
of  heavens  all  grey  with  a  deceitful  softness,  the  great 
northwestern  glacier  of  Mt.  Lincoln  vomited  in  a  wide 
ice-fall  its  adamantine  and  silt-polluted  Niagaras. 

They  trudged  onward  toward  the  V-shaped  pass  in 
the  snow  ridge  running  at  right  angles  to  the  valley. 
They  knew  that  behind  it  the  glacier  mounted  south 

and  eastward  into  the  heart  of  the  range.     They  hoped 

119 


120       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

by  the  pass  to  reach  its  upper  fields,  from  which  arose 
the  northwest  shoulder  of  the  mountain,  their  invisible 
first  objective. 

Forward!  The  sodden  moss,  scattered  with  small 
bell-shaped,  purple  flowers  that  had  no  leaves,  petered 
out.  Old  snowbanks,  sugaring  away  into  cloudy  pools 
the  hue  of  turquoise,  were  edged  with  scarlet  infusoria 
—  the  "  bloody  snow "  of  the  North.  A  big  clear 
pond,  its  bottom  set  with  a  mosaic  of  flat  stones,  marked 
the  white  apron-edge  of  the  unending  snow.  A  moment 
of  sloshing  into  deep  muck,  and  their  nailed  shoes  bit 
into  the  soggy  expanse,  at  5,800  feet.  They  ploughed 
upward  through  the  fresh  fall  of  the  last  few  nights. 
The  slope  steepened.  They  switchbacked.  They 
slumped  knee-deep  through  crust  under  crust  of  old 
snowings.  Every  score  of  paces  they  paused  for 
breath ;  Bob  drew  out  the  aneroid ;  surely  feet  had  been 
punished  by  hundreds ;  but  its  hair  of  steel  would  con- 
cede hardly  fifty.  "  We  must  be  soft,"  he  panted  once. 
And  the  invidious,  sunless  glare  stole  with  a  vague 
aching  behind  their  eyeballs.  They  fumbled  in  their 
pockets  and  snapped  on  the  black,  masquerading  discs 
of  snow-glasses. 

Slope  after  slope.  The  under  edge  of  the  cloud-cap 
upon  the  pass  squeezed  forth  snow-squalls  which  struck 
them  with  gusts  and  a  pale  darkness.  Large  flakes 
caressed  their  mackinaws  as  they  paused,  braced  against 
their  ice-axes.  A  solider  curtain  of  inky  streamers 
swung  over  them  out  of  the  right-hand  obscurity. 
"  Wait.  It's  crazy  to  push  on,"  said  Bob ;  but  at  once 
the  gloom  thinned,  and  he  sprang  forward  crying, 
"  Halloo !  "  They  brought  up  breathing  like  sprinters 
at  the  tape,  before  cliffs  pitted  with  ledges,  set  with 
crumbling  spires  —  a  mid-air  Gibraltar  floating  against 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER     121 

them,  which  was  the  south  wall  of  the  pass  which  from 
afar  had  seemed  so  smooth  and  puny. 

The  other  wall  loomed  out.  They  spread  their 
ponchos  and  sat  silent  with  success.  In  the  dash  Gail 
had  felt  with  a  novel  thrill  that  he  must  beat  Bob  to 
whatever  revelation  was  at  hand.  But  only  the  faint 
tracks  of  a  mountain  sheep  swept  past  them  in  a  dotted 
curve,  and  the  pale  gossamer  blooms  of  arctic  poppies 
nodded  on  the  rocks  overhead.  Onward,  the  slope  sank 
smoothly  into  a  chill  dimness.  Bob,  producing  his  com- 
pass, tapped  its  dial,  exclaiming,  "  East,  south  ten 
magnetic,"  and  strode  downward  with  a  wave  of  his  axe. 

They  slid,  swiftly.  The  wind  had  swept  the  fields, 
and  the  crust  here  was  frozen.  Their  boots  crunched, 
crunched,  out  a  straight  trail  that  dropped  them  like 
a  spider's  thread,  never  stopping  to  rest,  into  the  un- 
known,—  an  endless  filament  reaching  finally  upon  a 
barrier  of  green  ice-blocks,  large  pale  boulders,  deep 
pits  of  silt  and  gravel.  "  Ho,  come  on !  "  shouted  Bob. 
"  The  esker ! "  Blindly,  for  the  drizzle  had  shut  in 
again,  they  floundered  across  its  chaos,  and  out  upon 
the  flatness  of  the  great  glacier  far  above  its  ice-fall. 
The  vague  expanse  had  been  melted,  then  crisped,  into 
a  glare  of  tiny,  innumerable  ridges  of  snow-ice.  These 
locked  about  scattered  chunks  of  dark  rock  drift,  were 
cupped  around  even  pyramids  of  silt  that  advanced 
gnomishly  through  the  scud  as  they  pressed  on. 

Dull  to  the  lapse  of  time  and  distance,  they  trudged 
upward  into  snow  again.  Unceasingly  their  feet  again 
laid  the  notched  thread  of  their  craft  and  destiny,  until 
suddenly,  as  if  the  world  had  ended  under  them,  the  ice 
bit  down  into  nothingness.  Out  of  it  welled  a  sub- 
terranean vibration.  Bob  rooted  himself  with  an  ex- 
clamation. Then  slowly  the  vision  of  a  blue  lake 


THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

resolved  itself  out  of  the  chill  refractions  deep  in  the 
chasm,  the  tremulous  sound  betrayed  a  river  scouring  in 
the  trough  of  a  crevasse  its  concaved  walls  of  polished 
azure. 

"  It's  longitudinal,"  breathed  Bob.  "  So  a  big  ridge 
must  cut  the  glacier  ahead  there.  And  the  northwest- 
ern one  we  want,  I  bet  you.  Gods,  if  she'd  only  clear !  " 

"  You  mean  the  spur  that  leads  into  the  main  western 
shoulder  of  the  mountain,  the  one  we've  got  to  reach?  " 
asked  Gail. 

"  Yes,  yes.  But  how  did  you  guess  ?  "  demanded  Bob, 
fixing  his  blue  eyes  upon  Gail.  "  And  see.  Seven 
thousand  one  hundred  feet."  He  held  out  the  aneroid. 

Instinctively  each  had  freed  the  straps  from  his  ach- 
ing shoulders,  and  now  began  to  unload  the  packs. 
They  spread  the  big  paraffined  tarpaulin  over  their 
contents,  anchoring  its  edges  with  rocks  dug  from  the 
edge  of  the  crevasse.  At  once  a  weariness  crept  over 
them,  a  soreness  invaded  every  sinew,  and  hunger 
gripped  their  vitals  like  a  sudden  cramp.  They  drank 
the  hot  tea  from  the  vacuum  bottle,  gulp  and  gulp  in 
turn,  gnawing  chunks  of  twice-baked  bread  and  pem- 
mican  drawn  from  their  mackinaw  pockets. 

"  Anyhow,  this  is  our  base  camp,"  decided  Bob  aloud, 
at  last.  "  The  stream  down  there'll  save  alcohol.  We 
won't  have  to  melt  ice  for  tea.  We'll  have  the  tent 
and  blankets  up  tomorrow,  ready  to  start  the  day  after, 
if  it's  clear."  He  paused;  then  added  with  vehemence, 
"  Anything  to  quit  that  camp  of  Jonesy's.  Give  me 
my  pipe.  I  feel  like  smoking.  You  numb  in  your  head 
again?" 

"  Ye-es,"  said  Gail  slowly,  handing  him  the  briar. 
"  But  I  think  my  grouch  left  me  for  good  last  night. 
I  couldn't  sleep.  I  got  an  inkling  of  this  business  of 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      123 

yours,  the  faith  it  must  be  to  you,  what  it  ought  to 
tax  me.  But  the  plugging  today  has  kept  my  nose  too 
close  to  it  all.  Blotted  out  my  mind,  like  on  the  trail." 

Gail  saw,  as  if  through  the  fog  around  them,  his  keen 
concentration  upon  immortal  rewards  and  the  white 
world  into  which  they  had  battled,  bewildered  by  the 
nearness  of  all  its  ominous  complexity. 

"  You're  taking  hold  of  things,  though,"  said  Bob. 
"  It's  the  responsibility,  with  no  Jonesy."  He  took 
out  his  watch.  "  We've  been  gone  six  hours." 

Never  before  had  remarks  of  Bob's  sounded  so  inade- 
quate to  Gail.  "  Six  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  seems  like 
sixty  minutes." 

Snowden  again  levelled  him  a  look  of  puzzled  wonder. 
He  had  expected  the  time  to  have  been  interminable  to 
Gail. 

He  coiled  around  their  cache  the  rope  to  be  used  for 
tying  them  together  in  navigating  crevasses,  and  then 
one  by  one,  thousands  by  thousands,  they  retrod  the 
faint  scars  of  their  foot-prints.  Gail  was  often  in  the 
van,  and  Bob,  letting  him  ahead  when  they  struck  the 
unmarred  crisp  ice,  noted  the  sureness  with  which,  not 
glancing  at  his  compass  or  asking  the  direction,  he  led 
through  the  fog  to  the  piled  ice-cakes  of  the  esker,  at 
the  exact  point  where  they  had  crossed  it;  and  thence 
to  their  trail  up  the  pass  —  its  summit  like  the  very 
roof  of  the  world.  There  a  soft,  blinding  rain  had  set 
in;  but  from  the  turquoise  ponds,  the  familiar  world 
of  tundra  and  canyon  reshaped  itself,  the  first  lifted 
above,  into  an  horizon  bright  with  rose  and  golden 
cloud,  the  other  caverned  and  hazy,  beneath  a  line  of 
lucent  indigo. 

At  the  tent  it  seemed  that  the  wet  willow  twigs  would 
never  blaze,  the  tea  be  boiled,  the  cooked  beans  warmed. 


184       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

"  Let  her  blizz  all  night  if  she  wants,"  Gail  yawned. 
"  I  can  sleep  now  till  kingdom-come." 


And  Gail  did,  as  if  he  had  been  drugged.  But  he 
awoke  with  a  sense  that  Bob  had  thrashed  about  for 
long  spaces  during  the  night ;  once,  even,  had  cried  out. 
But  he  was  out  by  the  fire  ahead  of  Gail,  meditatively 
whittling  tent-pegs.  Breakfast  was  ready,  and  the 
vacuum  bottle  full. 

They  cached  flour  and  beans  enough  to  last  to  the 
Hartline  camp  at  the  Chyta  forks.  The  drizzle  had 
set  in  thicker,  but  today  with  only  the  tent,  blankets, 
and  what  remained  of  the  reserve  pemmican,  the  packs 
were  lighter,  and  ten  o'clock  found  them  at  the  sum- 
mit of  the  pass.  The  rain  had  ceased,  and  vagrant 
snow-flakes  were  falling  through  utter  windlessness. 
Then,  as  always  upon  repeated  courses,  the  distance 
down  the  slope,  across  the  esker  and  up  among  the  silt 
mounds  of  the  gridded  ice,  appeared  to  shrink.  The 
awe  of  first  tempting  the  white  vastness  weakened  to 
a  homeliness  recognised  in  each  drift  and  boulder.  At 
two  o'clock  they  heard  the  drone  of  the  blue  river 
through  its  caverns,  and  were  clearing  the  new  snow 
from  their  cache. 

It  had  come  on  colder.  Nature  seemed  to  have  sus- 
pended her  transforming  forces.  They  pitched  the  tent 
from  its  telescoping  pole,  spread  tarpaulins  on  the  hard 
crust  inside,  laid  their  blankets,  piled  the  grub  about 
their  heads.  Bob  shinned  down  to  the  river  for  water ; 
the  aluminum  kettle  was  humming  over  the  spirit  lamp, 
and  they  were  putting  on  dry  socks,  when  a  tickling, 
metallic  sound  on  the  silk  roof  showed  that  the  flakes 
had  begun  to  freeze.  Suddenly  the  gauzy  walls  about 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      125 

them  burst  into  a  glow.  They  might  have  been  within 
an  electric  bulb.  They  plunged  outside,  speechless. 

As  if  by  some  world-creating  miracle,  sparkling 
plains  rolled  forth  all  around.  Ranges  of  toothed  alps 
girded  them,  stupendous  cliffs  of  a  dazzling,  lacelike 
whiteness,  that  were  streaked  by  black  avalanches  which 
seemed  to  support  naked  ledges  upon  their  thin,  pil- 
lared paths,  and  higher,  the  mushroomed  caps  of  hang- 
ing snow  cornices.  Drawing  away,  narrowed  in  quick 
perspective,  everywhere  arms  of  the  glacier  mounted, 
coiling  upward,  rough  and  ribbed  like  the  backs  of 
frozen  reptiles,  into  hanging  bergschrunds,  which  van- 
ished into  the  tenderest  of  clear  heavens. 

The  big  crevasse  turned  to  the  right,  westward,  and 
its  marble  walls  were  spanned  by  a  bridge  bearded  un- 
derneath with  ice  stalactites.  Straight  south  across  it, 
three  miles  or  more,  rose  what  at  first  appeared  to 
be  a  lone,  cubical  mountain,  thrust  out  upon  the  glacier. 

"  Our  northwest  spur,"  whispered  Bob,  pointing 
thither  with  a  shaking  hand.  Yet  as  he  gazed,  the 
furrows  in  his  forehead  deepened,  his  eyes  bulged  from 
their  large  sockets  and  clouded  over.  "  But  look  at 
her,  will  you  ?  "  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "  All  hang- 
ing glaciers." 

They  stared,  unaware  of  breathing.  The  glacier 
broke  upon  the  spur  in  a  welter  of  ice-falls.  Up  its 
abrupt,  square  face,  huddled  slim  spires  of  ice;  leaning 
cornices  sprang  out.  Arched  caverns  yawned  —  but 
specks  of  darkness.  And  eastward,  to  the  left,  enfold- 
ing the  bulk  of  Lincoln  within  the  heart  of  the  range, 
cowered  the  sombre  immensity  of  a  cloudbank  dense 
like  ivory. 

"  She  leads  all  right  across  some  sort  of  upper  am- 
phitheatre to  our  west  ridge,"  said  Bob.  "  But  we'll 


126       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

have  to  turn  this  end  of  her.  Try  to  get  up  some 
glacier  where  she  joins  it." 

"  Go  which  side  of  the  spur?  "  cut  in  Gail,  engrossed. 
"To  the  right  or  left?" 

"  The  left,  but  not  very  much.  Too  far  would  land 
us  in  that  fog,  against  the  ten-thousand-foot  wall  that 
the  map  puts  straight  under  the  summit  and  makes 
unclimbable." 

"  There's  the  main  ridge,  sweeping  up  behind  every- 
thing," cried  Gail.  "  Over  all  that  mist  which  looks  to 
be  a-fire." 

Emerging  beyond  and  above  the  square  spur,  towered 
needly  ranges,  rumpled  hanging  glaciers  —  an  anarchy 
of  ice-falls ;  and  topping  them,  the  western  ridge  in  a 
bold,  smooth  line  incalculably  high  against  the  ice-green 
southern  sky. 

Bob  rose  on  tiptoe,  suddenly  laughing,  as  though 
helplessly.  "  Once  we're  up  to  that  amphitheatre,  it's 
all  right.  We  can  make  it.  We  got  to !  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  sun  in  the  North  behind  them  seemed 
to  sink  a  degree  or  more,  behind  some  dulling  film.  And 
instantly,  downward  from  the  empyrean  of  that  delec- 
table ridge,  all  was  drenched  in  a  rainbow  fluorescence, 
to  the  torrent  at  their  feet,  chanting  through  the  bluish 
shadows  which  also  filled  every  scar  in  the  surrounding 
snow. 

"It's  all  too  much,  isn't  it?"  uttered  Bob,  his  face 
crimson.  "  If  a  man  could  only  believe  it  wasn't 
real—" 

"  Cut  it !  "  Gail  commanded  hoarsely. 

m 

He  dove  into  the  tent  for  the  camera.  He  set  the 
shutter,  glanced  at  the  sun;  crossed  the  bridge  of 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      127 

stalactites.  On  its  far  side,  a  maze  of  smaller  crev- 
asses hid  their  treachery  beneath  faint  grooves  of  new 
snow.  Bob  called  out  to  beware,  and  his  lips  were  still 
moving,  when,  without  a  cry  or  audible  crunch  of  the 
crust,  Gail's  arms  flung  up  and  he  shot  out  of  sight  like 
a  man  jumping  into  the  sea. 

Bob  felt  a  burning  wave  sweep  through  his  bosom. 
He  found  himself  plunging  back  to  the  tent,  running 
dizzily  in  circles.  He  seized  the  glacier  rope,  dashed 
across  the  snow  bridge.  There,  restraining  himself 
with  a  maddening  caution,  he  slowly  followed  Gail's 
track,  poking  the  snow  with  his  ice-axe  at  each  step. 
A  muffled,  plaintive  sound  issued  from  the  ice  all  about. 
Lying  on  his  stomach,  he  began  to  worm  toward  it, 
through  a  sudden  heart-breaking  silence,  until  he  was 
peering  downward  into  an  unhallowed  darkness. 

"I  —  I  can't  hold  her  long,"  came  Gail's  calm, 
steeled  voice,  distorted  by  the  slithery  walls.  Yet  by  it 
Bob  located  his  head,  at  first  but  a  grey  disc  wedged 
between  the  converging  planes  of  ice.  Then,  as  his 
eyes  grew  used  to  the  greenish  gloom,  he  made  out 
Gail's  four  limbs  hunched  up  and  braced  like  a  spider's 
legs. 

"  Slipping  ..."  came  his  voice,  strident,  yet 
sonorous. 

The  end  of  the  rope  was  touching  Gail's  hair.  He 
seized  it,  in  a  frenzy  of  motion.  Recklessly  Bob  sprang 
upright,  hurled  himself  backward,  bracing  his  feet 
against  a  chunk  of  hard  neve.  He  whipped  the  rope 
taut;  jerked  it  about  his  waist.  But  the  quick  down- 
drop  of  Gail's  body,  relaxing  its  brace,  ripped  Bob's 
feet  from  under  him,  dragged  him  back  toward  the 
crevasse,  clawing  at  the  crust.  For  anchorage  he 
lunged  his  arms  and  legs  against  every  nub  and  crack 


128       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

in  it,  until  finally  he  checked  himself,  groaning,  and 
found  that  he  could  gain  ground. 

Images  of  Gail's  arms  and  legs  fighting  upward, 
impotent,  against  twin,  glazed  perpendiculars  danced 
through  his  brain.  He  heard  the  crrohr  of  a  cave-in 
upon  utter  hollowness.  His  muscles  locked  for  a  last, 
desperate  tug.  Gail,  as  if  he  had  turned  a  hand  spring, 
tumbled  into  the  light,  his  face  like  dough  under  its 
shell  of  tan. 

Neither  one  spoke  until  they  had  reached  the  tent, 
and  Bob,  having  made  the  tea,  was  filling  both  their 
cups. 

"  It  only  made  me  angry,"  mumbled  Gail  at  length, 
as  if  thinking  aloud.  "  I  was  so  mad,  I  didn't  feel  — 
fright  or  terror,  anyhow.  Thought  of  nothing  in  my 
whole  life.  Only  the  blood  boiled  out  to  my  hands  and 
feet,  and  my  heart  seemed  running  into  water.  But 
my  head  was  clear,  too  clear.  It  was  like  some  fiend 
had  struck  me,  cursed  my  manhood.  Then  the  empti- 
ness of  everything — "  he  broke  off,  staring  into  his 
cup. 

"  You  felt  that  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end,  be- 
cause you  thought  that  you  were  done  for,"  put  in  Bob 
searchingly.  "  You  were  mad  at  being  snuffed  out, 
with  nothing  of  you  left  behind." 

For  a  moment  Gail  gulped  at  his  tea;  then  started, 
spilling  it. 

"  Yes.  That  was  the  idea.  I  get  it  now.  You  put 
it  straight  for  me,"  he  exclaimed.  He  paused.  His 
wide  crinkled  lips,  still  blue,  his  dark  eyes  still  shot 
with  a  red,  defiant  gleam,  widened  upon  Bob  as  if  he 
were  a  spectre.  Raising  one  up-curved  eyebrow,  his 
nostrils  drew  into  their  old-time  pucker,  and  he  de- 
manded solemnly:  "How  could  you  know  that?" 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      129 

"  Every  man  craves  that  his  life  shan't  end  with 
him,"  replied  Bob,  meeting  Gail's  stare,  but  with  an 
effort  to  speak  carelessly.  "  He  wants  some  form  or 
other  of  himself  to  live  on  after  him.  It's  the  com- 
monest instinct.  Even  of  all  animals.  It's  all  that 
keeps  the  world  going." 

"You  believe  that,  too?"  burst  out  Gail,  the  fire 
mounting  in  his  eyes. 

"  I'm  here,  climbing  this  mountain,  for  some  such 
reason,"  he  responded,  now  in  a  hard  voice. 

Gail's  eyes  dimmed  with  incomprehension  of  his  own 
surging  thoughts. 

"  Yes,  it  would  have  been  different,  dying  trapped 
down  there  — "  he  began,  re-immersed  in  himself.  "  I 
guess  I  shouldn't  have  been  so  mad — "  his  voice  fell, 
strangely  hushed.  "  If  the  kid  had  lived." 

He  turned  his  face,  convulsively,  to  the  tent  wall. 
His  sharp  Adam's  apple  swelled  and  rose  toward  his 
chin. 

Bob  laid  a  gentle  hand  on  his  arm.  "  Tell  me  about 
him,"  he  said  with  eager  persuasion.  "  I've  wondered 
if  something  like  that.  .  .  .  ' 

"  I  couldn't,"  stammered  Gail,  "  except  for  our 
being  alone  in  a  place  like  this,  and  just  having  shaken 
hands  with  —  Death.  Unless  you  seemed  half  to  see, 
anyhow,  what  I  want  out  of  living." 

"  I've  seen  all  along  how  alike  we  are,  man." 

Steadying  himself,  Gail  stumbled  through  the  story 
of  his  animal  youth,  of  his  vitiating  marriage;  of 
Martha's  letter  and  the  deaths  in  the  lodging-house. 
He  spoke  without  reserve;  without  shame  for  any  of 
his  disloyalties ;  of  his  paternal  desire,  without  shyness. 
He  told  all  except  his  love  for  Clara.  She,  as  the  liv- 
ing flame  of  his  ideal  thirst,  the  mate  he  had  fancifully 


130       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

destined  her  to  be,  was  a  being  too  sacred,  omnipotent, 
even  for  this  friend  and  for  this  moment. 

Bob  listened  with  downcast  eyes,  boiling  water  for 
the  pea-soup,  stirring  in  the  yellow  powder.  The  two 
men  appeared  to  have  exchanged  personalities.  Gail's 
sentences  pulsated  with  Bob's  mercuric  abruptness,  the 
while  he,  as  though  soothed  and  revitalised  by  the  first 
taste  of  his  coveted  endeavour,  listened  on  intent,  self- 
possessed,  his  set  jaw  not  once  quivering,  his  pallor 
already  suffused  with  a  tinge  of  the  hue  peculiar  to 
snow-burn. 

The  tent  walls  had  ceased  to  glow,  as,  lifting  his 
chilled  cup  of  soup,  Gail  stopped  talking  with  — 

"  So  I'm  trying  to  grasp  what  every  man  works  and 
suffers  for,  the  prospectors,  traders,  labourers,  who 
are  making  this  country.  They  don't  seem  to  see  be- 
yond the  moment,  and  its  cash  gains  and  jealousies. 
If  I  think  I  get  at  their  bedrock  desires,  they  always 
appear  so  selfish  and  short-sighted.  And  then  some 
passion  or  surrender  kills  my  sympathy,  makes  me 
angry  with  them,  like  with  Jonesy.  .  .  .  ' 

In  the  pause,  the  rising  night  wind  began  to  flap  a 
rib  of  the  tent.  Bob  moistened  his  lips,  as  if  waiting 
for  the  ruffling,  silken  sound  to  cease. 

"  And  a  man  like  me  ?  "  he  ventured,  with  a  slow 
rising  inflection. 

"  You  ?  "  ej  aculated  Gail  in  wonder,  shaking  off  his 
confusing  train  of  thought. 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  there  on  the  steamer  why  I  want 
to  climb  mountains,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  you'd  see 
for  yourself  —  in  a  place  like  this."  He  drew  in  a 
breath.  "Don't  you?" 

"  Maybe  I  did  last  night,"  said  Gail,  deliberating. 
"A  man  must  be, some  sort  of  a  fanatic  here.  And  I 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      131 

was  losing  faith  in  the  North  as  a  key  to  men's  hearts. 
But  it  seems  to  bring  out  the  truth  about  one's  self 
even  more." 

"  Go  on,"  urged  Bob.     "  Go  on." 

But  Gail,  with  a  poignant  sense  that  he  was  flounder- 
ing beyond  his  depth,  felt  that  he  could  not  continue. 

"  Aren't  there  other  ways  of  a  man's  living  on  after 
dying?  "  hinted  Bob,  half-closing  his  eyes.  "  Disem- 
bodied ways,  but  just  as  real?  " 

"How  could  there  be?"  Gail  asked  obtusely,  puz- 
zled. He  was  dulled  by  his  old  uncertainty  in  grasping 
a  fellow's  problem,  when  suddenly  memory  of  the  Irish- 
man on  the  Seattle  dock  and  his  thirst  for  wandering 
flashed  through  Gail.  At  least,  Gail  blessed  him,  with  a 
wave  of  gratitude,  that  the  man  unknowingly  had 
guided  him  to  the  North,  to  here. 

"  Suppose  I  reach  the  top  of  Lincoln,"  said  Bob. 
Aware  of  Gail's  bluntness,  he  weighed  a  revealing  man- 
ner of  speech.  "  It's  the  highest  mountain  in  the  world 
so  far  north  that's  virgin.  When  I  die,  wouldn't  the 
name  of  having  done  that,  my  name,  live  on  after  me 
as  real  as  I  myself,  or  any  part  of  you,  could;  more 
real  for  the  general  knowledge  of  such  a  deed.  A  single 
life  is  lost  so  in  the  crowd." 

"  Say  that  again.  It  sounds  fanatical  —  I  told 
you."  Gail's  heart  was  throbbing,  his  forehead  hot 
and  moist.  His  lips  quivered  into  a  smile.  "  How 
could  it?"  he  laughed,  incredulous.  "Only  a  name. 
But  the  idea  is  terrible.  Let  me  think." 

But  Bob  did  not  repeat  himself.  He  hunched  his 
shoulders  impatiently,  as  if  rebuffed,  and  lapsed  in  a 
moody  silence. 

"  No  other  sort  of  success  has  ever  counted  with  me," 
he  muttered  after  a  while,  as  though  to  himself.  He 


THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

was  reviewing  his  days  cooped  in  a  Wall  Street  office, 
among  men  with  childish,  calculable  aims ;  his  father's 
promises  of  ease  and  wealth  if  he  buckled  down  in  such 
a  jail.  Each  spring  there,  visions  of  winds  rustling 
the  aspens  down  unknown  river  bends,  of  such  a  very 
day  as  this,  had  choked  his  heart,  until  the  break  with 
the  generous,  sordid  parents  whom  he  loved.  He  was 
filled  by  a  bitterness  that  had  no  regret.  He  burrowed 
down  into  his  blankets  with  a  sigh  that  summed  for  him 
all  the  riddle  of  existence. 

Gail  thought:  To  wander  for  its  own  sake,  grasp- 
ing deathless  scenes  ....  likewise  to  conquer  moun- 
tain-peaks. That  was  the  primordial  ache  of  two 
souls.  ...  A  trail,  also,  to  immortality?  .... 

They  had  hung  their  snow-glasses,  wet  socks,  ban- 
dannas, from  the  tent  pole.  With  their  boots  they  now 
extended  the  thin  walls  taut,  and  packed  their  edges 
with  snow  to  freeze  there  and  stifle  the  rising  wind 
whose  cold  had  begun  to  knife  them.  They  sank  back 
on  their  pillows  of  grub  and  duffle,  into  the  conscious 
silence  of  a  first  night  in  the  lifeless  wastes,  waiting 
upon  the  drowsiness  whose  advent  they  mistrusted. 

Now  and  then  they  whacked  the  neve  with  their  hips, 
to  mould  it  to  their  bodies.  No  sound  scarred  the 
silence,  except,  at  age-long  intervals,  the  racking  whis- 
per of  a  crevasse  opening,  or  the  muffled  boom  of  a 
caving  snow-bridge.  Neither  stirred  Gail  with  awe  or 
thankfulness  at  his  hairbreadth  brush  with  death.  He 
began  to  feel  torpid.  A  vague,  uplifting  dream  was 
haunting  him.  Suddenly  it  was  ruptured  by  a  guilty 
flush  of  gratitude. 

"  Snowden  —  Bob !  I  forgot."  He  started  up, 
half-asleep,  in  the  blear  day-whiteness  of  the  walling 
silk.  "  You  saved  my  life !  " 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      133 

"  Don't  reproach  me,"  Bob  answered  in  a  monotone, 
as  if  out  of  a  dream.  "  Neither  of  our  lives  is  worth 
anything  —  yet." 

His  words  dispelled  Gail's  sense  of  being  burdened 
with  a  debt.  He  discerned  in  them  an  intimate,  pro- 
phetic irony. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  he  murmured,  sinking  back  with  a 
renewed  drowsiness,  relieved  and  yet  the  more  op- 
pressed. 

It  was  as  if  some  unworthy  force  outside  himself,  in 
the  peopled  world  that  they  had  relinquished,  now  im- 
measurably distant  and  below,  had  cheated  him  with  a 
gush  of  sentiment  false  to  their  intrepid  quest. 

He  slept.  Yet,  as  if  he  had  been  awake,  he  felt  Bob's 
body  never  ceasing  to  shiver  against  him,  trembling  in 
ever  stronger  spells.  He  dreamed  of  a  black  rooster 
with  a  scarlet  comb  running  up  and  down,  cackling 
madly  along  the  snow-bank  outside  the  tent.  It  seemed 
a  crazy  trick  to  have  lugged  him  up  there,  far  from  his 
hens.  But  he  was  good  to  eat.  And  Gail  was  hungry. 
He  started  running  to  catch  him. 

rv 

A  ring  of  silver  light,  descending  the  limp  tent  walls, 
awoke  them  together.  A  clear  day  at  last!  Gail's 
heart  warmed  with  a  furtive  hunger  for  its  risks.  Yet 
Bob,  numb  from  sleeplessness  though  he  looked,  was  the 
first  to  struggle  from  his  blankets,  tear  open  the  tent 
flap,  fill  the  stove  and  prop  it  unsteadily  in  the  snow. 
As  the  water  heated,  they  kept  uncovering  the  pot, 
silently  feeling  its  sides.  They  jabbed  off  chunks  of 
pemmican  from  the  large  cake  with  their  knives.  Inter- 
minable minutes  passed,  through  their  noisy  gulping 


134       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

of  the  tea,  to  the  second  brew  for  soup.  The  bread 
was  swelling  in  it,  when  Gail,  peering  outside,  reached 
back  and  gripped  Bob  by  a  foot. 

"  The  summit,"  his  voice  came  hushed.  "  You  can 
see  her." 

The  ivory  cloud-bank  at  the  heart  of  the  range  had 
dissolved  in  the  night.  The  western  ridge  carried  the 
clear  gloaming  of  dawn  into  the  zenith.  There,  sus- 
pended like  an  iridescent  bubble  —  now  a  pyramid,  now 
globular;  then  with  sheer,  jeweled  facets,  catching  the 
remote,  up-slanting  fire  of  the  sun  from  behind  the 
crisp  and  shadowy  hordes  of  the  northeastern  ranges  — 
the  apex  of  the  North  flamed  slowly,  with  down-creeping 
gold. 

"  Lord !  Don't  forget  the  look,"  breathed  Bob  into 
Gail's  ear,  each  crouching  on  their  hands  and  knees. 
"  Shaped  like  a  pointed  cap  o'  liberty,  tilted  to  the  west. 
And  's  every  foot  of  her  19,100." 

The  sun  pinioned  them  over  a  sleek,  saucer-shaped 
cloud.  And  instantly,  throughout  the  hush  of  that 
immature  light  of  three  o'clock,  was  exhaled  an  orange 
haze.  It  softened  with  an  enervating  mistiness  the 
clean  outlines  of  ice-fall  and  lace-white  precipice,  which 
a  moment  back  it  seemed  they  might  have  touched  with 
their  hands ;  withdrew  them  to  vague  distances,  in  a 
malign,  refracting  light.  By  the  time  the  tent  was 
down  and  the  outfit  packed,  the  wine  of  the  morning 
had  soured.  Yet  Gail  accepted  the  menace  of  storm 
with  a  secret  exhilaration;  Bob  with  a  sharp  oath,  as 
he  headed  across  the  bridge  of  stalactites,  studying  his 
compass. 

"  Due  south,"  he  said.  "  But  not  too  far  to  the  left 
—  east,  remember,"  he  warned,  pointing  with  his  axe 
to  the  square  spur.  Its  unscalable  face  towered  behind 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      135 

distorting  veils  of  haze.  "  We  keep  along  its  right 
wall  when  we  reach  it.  It  oughtn't  to  be  three  miles 
from  there  to  some  glacier  between  it  and  the  main 
ridge,  leading  to  the  amphitheatre." 

Avoiding  the  cavern  of  yesterday's  skittish  instant, 
they  slowly  navigated  seas  of  hidden  crevasses.  They 
circled  among  the  random,  shallow  troughs  of  snow  that 
deceitfully  skimmed  them  over;  poked  their  axes 
through  these,  gazing  wistfully  into  inconceivable 
depths,  between  smooth,  green-azure  hanging-walls. 
Some  they  had  to  bridge,  laying  the  axes  from  lip  to 
lip  of  a  depression  to  distribute  their  weight,  scrambling 
across  in  turn  on  their  bellies,  with  a  quick  catlike 
agility.  It  was  impossible  to  keep  a  straight  course. 
After  each  circuit,  Bob  hesitated,  estimating  their  de- 
viation, and  struck  out  anew. 

Hours  passed.  They  forged  on  blind,  through  the 
moist,  dead  air,  which  it  seemed  should  smother  them. 
They  could  not  see  a  shade  of  the  toothed,  surrounding 
ranges.  And  their  senses  contracted  with  their  eyes, 
within  the  circle  of  the  dim  desert  alone  visible  around 
their  feet  and  moving  with  them. 

Once  Bob  stopped,  and  wiping  the  sweat  from  his 
forehead,  said  slowly :  "  We  ought  to  have  struck  the 
hummocks  at  the  foot  of  the  spur  by  now."  He  drew 
out  his  compass.  "  Did  I  say  south,  or  south  mag- 
netic?" 

"  South,"  panted  Gail.     "  You  didn't  qualify." 

"  Then  we're  hitting  too  far  to  the  left,"  Bob  ex- 
claimed. "  Your  right  leg's  stronger  —  makes  you." 
He  changed  course  to  the  right,  adding,  "  This  haze  is 
fierce.  Tiring,  depressing.  Maybe  we're  foolish  to 
start  in  it,  yet  without  that  pemmican  — "  he  stopped 
short. 


136       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

But  in  a  while  Gail,  moved  by  some  indefinable  im- 
pulse, called  a  halt. 

"  Isn't  this  too  far  to  the  right?  "  he  asked. 

Together  they  abruptly  changed  course,  Bob  with 
a  muttered  complaint  about  human  "  sense  of  direction." 


Suddenly,  dead  ahead,  a  chaos  of  huge  ice-blocks, 
each  capped  with  soiled  snow  and  bearded  with  long 
icicles,  sprang  out  crushingly,  breathlessly,  close  to 
them. 

"  Those  things  ought  to  be  on  the  right,"  burst  out 
Bob,  rooted  in  his  tracks.  "  Still,  they  look  possible. 
Shall  we  try  them?" 

His  voice  flagged  slightly,  irresolute,  as  if  he  de- 
pended upon  Gail,  who  felt  that  such  an  attitude  was 
at  odds  with  Bob's  avid  assurance  on  their  first  day's 
climb. 

"  Come  on  then,"  he  urged  vigorously,  lighting  Bob's 
pipe,  which  he  had  found  overlooked  near  the  packs  by 
camp.  They  fixed  the  rope  about  their  waists,  and 
mounted  the  first  hummocks  and  benches  of  the  icefall. 
Titanic  snow-teeth  and  pinnacles  enfolded  them.  The 
all-day  grind  began.  Time  and  distance  were  anni- 
hilated to  their  minds.  .  .  .  They  became  insects  creep- 
ing up  some  outer  orb  of  icy  coral,  upon  a  towering 
rugosity  honeycombed  with  dark  and  bottomless  pock- 
ets, which  now  lurked  behind  soft,  dazzling  walls,  now 
gaped  out  stark  danger. 

Their  spirits  were  stimulated  by  the  play  of  every 
muscle,  every  faculty,  in  the  game  against  disaster. 
First  one  ahead,  then  the  other,  would  call  back :  "  I 
got  her  —  this  way."  .  .  .  "Your  left  foot  on  that 
rotten  ice  —  it'll  bear"  ....  "We  can  get  around 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      137 

—  over  that  cornice."  They  spoke  with  quick  excite- 
ment. Their  minds,  consumed  by  this  strategy,  began 
to  blur.  It  was  confusing,  to  be  checked  and  baffled 
one  minute,  and  the  next  to  feel  that  in  a  single  step 
you  had  won  a  league  toward  the  unattainable.  The 
packs  dragged  them  down  as  though  filled  with  iron; 
the  straps  numbed  their  shoulders.  At  each  halt  Gail 
sniffed  at  his  load  to  make  sure  that  no  alcohol  was 
leaking. 

They  would  lean  back  to  rest,  facing  outward  from 
the  slope;  on  a  thumb  of  snow  that  seemed  ready  to 
crumble  at  a  touch;  by  the  gloom  of  lateral  caverns 
grinning  in  ancient  and  gravel-pocked  ice.  Bob  would 
produce  the  aneroid,  tap  its  dial,  mutter  the  hundreds 
of  feet  conquered.  And  ever  the  vivid  white  walls 
glanced  back  and  forth  that  windless  glare  which  was 
the  blight  of  sunlight;  that  searing  fire  which  pierced 
their  eyes  as  with  needles ;  which  despite  the  black  discs 
they  wore  made  each  look  to  the  other  a  grotesque  man- 
ikin. 

Sweat  poured  from  them,  odorless ;  yet  it  seemed  to 
carry  the  smell  of  the  pea-meal,  of  the  mutton-fat  in 
the  pemmican,  and  the  waterproofed  cloth  of  the  packs. 
Oh  for  a  gust  through  the  stagnation !  At  noon,  with- 
out a  word,  they  sidled  along  a  shelf,  and  Bob  dug 
the  tea  bottle  from  his  pack.  Their  tongues  were 
parched,  but  they  ate  without  hunger,  with  arms  lifted 
before  their  eyes.  Motes  specked  the  incandescence 
that  fused  into  their  sockets.  "  No  snow-blindness  — 
yet,"  Bob  tried  to  cheer. 

As  they  started  on,  a  muffled  rumbling  overhead  burst 
into  a  roar,  was  abruptly  checked.  A  tremor  ran  down 
the  slope.  Their  eyes  met,  filled  with  unutterable  sus- 
picion. "  Snowslide !  "  murmured  Bob.  "  And  close 
as  hell." 


138      THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

He  began  to  hesitate,  in  breasting  upward  across  the 
yawning  mouths  in  the  nev6;  to  shin  the  curving  brows 
of  cornices  more  clumsily.  But  Gail  felt  fitter  than 
at  starting,  a  time  today  —  contrarily  —  remote  as 
their  last  camp  in  timber.  The  blank  sky-line,  ever 
close  upon  his  shoulders,  yet  ever  rising,  challenged  him 
to  grapple  with  it,  impelled  him  to  an  anger  which  was 
slightly  flavoured  with  his  rage  when  down  the  crevasse. 
As  then,  his  thoughts  galloped  on,  destructive,  defying 
fear.  He  saw  his  escape  as  having  rid  him  of  some 
soft,  desolating  spell  that  had  fettered  him  since  leav- 
ing college.  His  sapped,  youthful  vigour  flamed  up 
within  him,  bridging  despicable  years.  He  became  ag- 
gressive, as  of  old  upon  the  foot-ball  field. 

Then  hard  crust  twisted  between  the  white  spires,  yet 
still  too  steep  for  foot-holds  when  clear  of  new  snow. 
They  cut  steps.  Bob  called  frequent  rests,  falling  for- 
ward on  his  axe,  panting  after  a  scant  minute's  pause: 
"  Go  on."  Or:  "  The  height  gets  my  wind.  Doesn't 
it  yours?"  It  did;  but  Gail  would  say,  "Not  yet," 
and  avoid  watching  Bob  brace  up  and  follow.  Yet 
they  kept  together,  and  each  knew  that  they  were  mak- 
ing good  time.  Soon  they  realised  that  it  had  long 
been  freezing.  At  a  sudden  levelling,  they  faced  off 
into  mid-air  with  triumphant  syllables. 

The  nether  world  of  blinding,  hazy  gold  had  curdled 
into  a  pallid  greyness.  Far  below,  flat,  pasty  clouds 
with  frayed  edges  blotted  the  white  universe,  corrupting 
the  glory  of  their  altitude.  Only  north,  in  a  vast  con- 
cave tilted  above  the  horizon,  mounted  a  strange  area 
of  the  tree  country,  a  soothing  cloud  of  violet. 

"  The  amphitheatre  behind  the  spur.  We're  up  to 
her ! "  exulted  Bob,  thrusting  an  arm  into  the  fog,  as  it 
closed  in  again. 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      139 

An  evil  gust  struck  down,  carrying  fine  ice  flakes. 
Their  feet  bit  into  the  wall  without  cutting.  Gail 
scooted  upward.  "  Hold  on  —  come  back  —  let  me  — " 
Bob  shouted  after  him;  but  in  a  minute,  and  as  one 
swings  over  eaves  to  a  roof,  Gail  stumbled  into  a  plain 
of  soft  and  knee-deep  snow  which  gave  forward,  por- 
tentous, into  the  obscurity. 

No  boyish  victory  of  brawn  and  skill  had  ever  thrilled 
him  so.  And  soon  Bob  sank  at  his  side,  without  re- 
proach for  the  spurt.  They  strove  inwardly,  through 
the  joy  of  achievement,  to  gather  their  warped  reason 
and  out-drawn  nerves.  But  their  eyes  could  penetrate 
less  of  the  pale  circle  about  them  than  when  down  on  the 
glacier. 

"  Those  sheer  cliffs,  east  under  the  summit,  ought  to 
cut  us  off  to  the  left,"  uttered  Bob.  "  In  five  feet  or 
five  hundred,  you  can't  tell.  And  our  trail  lies  straight 
up  among  those  ice-falls  we  saw  behind  the  amphitheatre, 
on  the  main  west  ridge." 

A  chattering  cloud  of  snow  volleyed  over  them,  and 
the  haze  darkened.  The  cold  pierced  and  stiffened  each 
wearied  tendon. 

"It's  late.  We  got  to  find  shelter  for  the  tent," 
Bob  urged.  "  Out  here,  with  this  blizzard  coming, 
she'd  blow  us  —  over  somewhere." 

Trusting  to  bull  luck  in  their  success,  not  jabbing  in 
their  axes,  they  silently  ploughed  on  south.  In  a  quar- 
ter mile,  a  dusky  wall  hardened  through  the  flakes ;  yet 
it  seemed  that  their  fagged  legs,  wrenched  out  and 
planted  as  upon  endless  quicksands,  could  never  make 
its  phantom  outlines  harden.  And  when  it  shot  up  over 
them  like  sudden  night,  smooth  with  precipices,  streaked 
diagonally  with  wavy  lines  of  pale  strata,  bristling  with 


140       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

gaunt  rock  pinnacles,  they  stopped  in  their  tracks,  rigid 
with  wonder. 

"  She  looked  all  tumbled  ice  from  below,"  said  Gail. 
"  Not  sheer  cliff  like  that." 

"  The  spur  hid  this.  The  ice  Is  higher,"  explained 
Bob.  "  And  now  refraction  makes  her  look  so  steep," 
he  encouraged  simply.  "  Camp,  anyhow." 

But  Gail's  eyes  were  scanning  a  big  snow-bank  at  the 
foot  of  the  wall.  They  searched  a  straight,  gouged 
path,  bordered  with  rough  snowballs,  that  extended  from 
it. 

He  said,  pointing:  "Those  edges  there  are  all  new 
and  clean." 

"  If  they  weren't,  we  shouldn't  risk  it  here.  What's 
fallen  won't  fall  again,"  said  Bob,  enigmatically.  "  But 
I  wish  we  could  see  the  top.  Then  we'd  be  sure." 

VI 

They  ducked  their  deadened  shoulders,  releasing  the 
packs,  and  with  the  pole  thrust  deep  down,  raised  the 
tent  low  in  the  white  gloom  against  the  storm.  They 
cemented  its  edges  under  a  foot  or  more  of  snow,  flicked 
off  what  had  seeped  over  the  tarpaulins,  and  at  last, 
dry-clothed,  wriggled  down  into  their  blankets,  in  the 
disorder  of  grub  and  dishes.  Bob  scooped  out  clean 
neve  from  a  hole  dug  by  his  head,  filling  the  pot  with 
slow  handfuls  which  slushed  into  water.  They  be- 
stirred themselves  drowsily.  Swollen  from  snow-burn, 
their  faces  now  bore  the  same  glistening  coppery  hue, 
as  of  lustre  porcelain.  Their  heads  felt  afire  to  the 
tips  of  their  ears,  and  heavy  with  a  dull  aching.  Fi- 
nally, clearing  their  dubious  ruminations,  the  song  of 
the  heating  water  stole  above  the  sandy  sfft  of  snow 
upon  the  silk. 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      141 

Bob,  with  a  mouthful  of  pemmican,  jerked  himself 
upright,  grabbed  into  the  corduroy  trousers  of  his 
pillow.  "  I  forgot.  The  test  of  everything ! "  he 
exclaimed,  drawing  out  the  aneroid.  "  Eleven  thousand 
five  hundred,  by  G !  "  he  announced.  "  Forty- 
three  hundred  feet  today.  I  told  you  we  were  some- 
where. One  more  camp,  man,  and  we  try  the  trick !  " 

Gail,  gulping  his  tea,  was  struck  by  the  contradiction 
in  such  buoyant  flashes  to  the  pliable  carelessness  with 
which  Bob  had  tackled  the  slope.  Of  like  part  was  his 
revealing,  searching  talk,  and  at  times  his  inept,  child- 
like remarks.  He  seemed  like  two  separate  beings :  the 
one  burning  with  unquenchable  enthusiasm,  the  other 
dimmed  by  a  querulous  inertness.  Yet  the  stimulus  of 
now  facing  his  ambition  had  returned  him  that  alert 
flush  of  the  body  which  he  had  lost  on  the  trail.  The 
seams  had  cleared  from  his  forehead,  the  muscles  of  his 
jaw  had  steadied,  and  his  features  no  longer  appeared 
drawn  or  too  narrow  for  his  broad  frame.  But  he 
lacked  that  fervid,  subduing  leadership  which  Gail  had 
assumed  that  his  zeal  would  dower  him  with  in  the 
actual  assault  upon  the  mountain.  His  optimism  held 
no  overpowering  assurance.  It  rather  stirred  Gail  to 
misdoubts,  tainting  his  dawning  ardour  for  the  climb. 

Over  the  pea-soup,  Bob  shot  him  shy,  irritated 
glances ;  Gail  wondered  whether  from  weariness  and  the 
forbidding  glimpse  of  their  way  forward,  or  if  pique 
rankled  him  for  that  dash  over  the  ridge's  lip.  And 
the  sizzling,  gulping  noises  that  Bob  made  grated  upon 
Gail,  who  felt  his  will  bending  not  to  show  annoyance. 
For  the  first  time  a  reserve  silenced  them,  as  though 
each,  under  the  grim  exactions  of  the  fight  toward  the 
summit,  was  jealous  of  the  other;  as  if  their  reckless 
and  inhuman  height  —  the  blind  malignity  of  ice  and 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

rock,  all  the  immanence  and  lure  of  peril  —  had  aroused 
in  both  that  truculent  emulation  which  is  inherent  in 
every  man  when  no  quarter  may  be  called  in  the  con- 
test for  survival. 

The  gusts  of  the  rising  storm,  laden  also  with  the 
snow  swept  from  the  fields,  assailed  the  tent  with  fierce, 
tinkling  broadsides.  Bob  clattered  the  dishes  into  the 
snow-hole,  and  each  stretched  out,  back  close  to  back 
for  warmth.  Again  Bob  shivered  in  intermittent  waves, 
and  Gail  could  hear  his  heart  beating  on  like  a  flywheel 
that  has  slipped  its  belt.  The  tent  ribs  would  begin, 
then  suddenly  cease,  a  violent  flapping,  as  if  wrung  by 
unseen  hands.  Gail  felt  that  some  person  was  standing 
just  outside,  his  stare  penetrating  their  livid  cell.  At 
intervals  one  or  the  other  would  start  up  aimlessly,  and 
then  pound  the  freezing  snow  tighter  upon  the  border 
of  the  buried  fabric.  .  .  . 

At  one  such  moment  came  the  cataclysm. 

"  Here's  our  damned  immortal  — !  "  Bob's  cry  was 
stifled,  smoothed  back  into  his  throat,  by  some  rising, 
encasing,  stupendous  bulk. 

No  sound  gave  warning  of  the  avalanche.  It  beat 
them  down,  pummeled,  choked  them  in  the  pit  of  a  soft 
roaring.  It  flattened  out,  prisoned  them  like  fossiled 
creatures.  The  anger  that  had  stung  Gail  in  the 
crevasse  leaped  to  a  fury  that  shrivelled  thought  or 
speech.  Then  each,  feeling  that  his  senses  had  lapsed, 
found  himself  furiously  lunging  his  arms  and  legs,  gasp- 
ing for  air!  for  air!  in  a  terror  of  suffocation. 

Bob  spoke  first,  stammering,  "  Who  —  what's  letting 
us  breathe?  " 

They  cuffed  back  the  broken  tent-pole,  clawed  away 
the  casing  silk.  Slowly  their  panic  was  tempered  by 
the  sly,  desperate  calculation  of  trapped  rats.  Any 


THE    FIRST   SURRENDER     U3 

thought  of  smothering,  of  exhaustion  or  the  limits  of 
carnal  tissue,  they  abjured.  Bob  wielded  the  pot  which 
fitted  to  the  bottom  of  the  alcohol  can.  Gail  shovelled 
with  the  aluminum  plate.  They  dug,  dug,  upward  for 
breath  and  life;  welcoming  the  dizziness  that  dulled 
fatigue;  daring  to  voice  neither  hope  nor  hopelessness 
through  the  lagging  hours,  welding  in  each  stroke  the 
last  atom  of  their  strength,  in  their  hearts  deriding 
obliteration. 

"  We  must  damnably  love  — "  Bob  gasped  once,  "  liv- 
ing for  —  nothing." 

When  they  could  stand  in  their  steep  chimney,  they 
groped  for  the  outfit  in  the  powdery  snow,  packed  it; 
then,  digging  on,  they  cut  shelf  above  shelf,  each  at  the 
height  of  their  shoulders  from  the  other,  raising  the 
duffle  after  them.  Masses  of  the  rough  dome  overhead 
obligingly  caved  down,  yet  only  to  tumble  them  to  the 
bottom  of  the  burrow,  into  a  soft  moil  from  which  they 
freed  themselves,  unearthing  the  packs,  feeling  that 
they  had  quarried  for  useless  ages,  and  were  but  rebe- 
ginning  the  ordeal. 

They  sweltered  in  the  heat  from  their  bodies. 
"  Snow's  not  so  porous  —  holding  less  air  all  the  time," 
growled  Gail. 

"  It's  the  height  makes  us  short  of  breath,"  whis- 
pered Bob,  hugging  the  delusion.  "  And  she  may  be 
hundreds  of  feet  up  yet." 

"  Thousands ! "  boiled  Gail  between  his  teeth. 

At  intervals  he  rested  his  head  against  the  wall  of 
their  slender  shaft ;  and  for  this  received  sinister  glances 
shot  by  Bob,  ceaselessly  scooping,  until  he,  of  a  sudden, 
collapsed  with  a  groan.  Gail  prodded  him,  mercilessly 
rubbed  his  face  with  snow,  as  he  lay  inert  on  their  shelf ; 
and  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  lifted  and  leaned  him  up- 


144       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

right.  He  came  to  with  a  despairing  mutter,  and  stag- 
gering to  work  again,  rasped  angrily  — 

"  Fools !  Fools !  Of  course  those  snowballs  we  saw 
last  night  were  a  warning ! " 

"  Like  being  drowned,  eh  ?  Walking  on  the  bottom 
of  the  ocean  —  yet  alive,"  drawled  Gail,  curbing  his 
scorn  of  such  simple  hindsight.  And  then  in  a  changed, 
cracked  voice: 

"Look!     Gods!     Look!" 

Light.  A  crack,  forked  like  a  tiny  flash  of  lightning, 
had  leaped  across  the  dome.  It  glimmered  phosphores- 
cent into  the  vacuum  of  the  tunnel.  They  flew  at  it. 
Once  Bob  scraped  Gail's  cheek  with  the  folding  handle 
of  the  pot,  so  that  blood  flowed;  but  neither  of  them 
noticed.  The  dome  glowed  bluish,  then  a  lemon  yellow. 
They  were  striking  upward  through  a  granular  blaze 
of  light,  a  clear,  eye-piercing  brilliance.  Flinging 
their  arms,  whipping  their  legs,  they  rolled  out  upon 
flat  snow,  as  if  sprung  from  a  mortar. 

Easing,  icy  air  rushed  down  their  nostrils,  prolong- 
ing its  first  breath  into  a  delicious,  immeasurable 
draught,  that  intoxicated  them  —  set  their  astounded, 
grateful  senses  reeling.  And  then,  as  they  reached 
down  and  lifted  out  the  packs,  the  poison  of  the  light 
despoiled  them,  probing  into  their  irises  sensitised  by 
the  long  gloom,  so  that  they  squirmed  their  faces  into 
the  snow. 

Yet  they  began  to  laugh  foolishly,  overcome  by  the 
miracle  of  their  escape,  wrinkling  their  blue  lips  and 
still  black  faces.  Weakly  they  slid  on  the  masking  discs 
of  their  snow-glasses.  But  even  these  failed  to  shade 
into  visibility  the  encircling  chaos  of  alps,  the  glisten- 
ing precipices  which  had  sloughed  off  that  murderous 
cloak.  Thus,  westward,  where  their  plateau  narrowed, 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER      145 

they  were  blind  to  the  peaks  far  beyond  it  —  those 
sheafs  of  bright  needles  under  that  naked  and  pitiless 
sky,  and  the  crinkled,  reptilian  tentacles  of  the  glaciers 
and  ice-falls  over  there. 

vn 

"  Past  noon.  She  couldn't  have  fallen  on  us  till  near 
morning,"  exclaimed  Bob,  jumping  upright.  He  felt 
that  his  eyes  had  at  last  got  used  to  the  glare;  but  on 
glancing  around,  they  met  only  a  luminous  mist  which 
had  stealthily  enveloped  them. 

"  It's  too  late  and  we're  too  tired  to  tackle  that  cliff. 
Under  this  fog,  anyhow,"  he  went  on,  yawning,  in  the 
reaction  to  weariness  and  sleep.  "  We've  lost  a  day. 
Camp  here,"  he  muttered  with  resignation.  "  Light- 
ning doesn't  strike  twice  — " 

"  Unless  a  man's  short  of  pemmican,"  reminded  Gail, 
starting  to  pitch  the  tent.  "  Jonesy.  .  .  .  Daughter 
or  no  daughter,  we  ought  to  have  packed  along  some  of 
that  buckskin.  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  squeal,"  retorted  Bob.  "  With  enough  tea, 
we  can  make  it  on  half  rations.  But  another  delay  'ud 
fix  us." 

Gail  checked  himself,  thinking,  with  a  touch  of  his 
former  sullenness:  Why  this  accusing  languor,  in- 
stead of  Bob's  old  nervous  cheer  in  ripping  through 
a  rebuff?  Gail  felt  no  conviction  in  his  confidence. 

They  reeled  under  the  low  roof  of  silk,  husbanding 
the  alcohol  as  they  filled  the  stove.  They  drank  their 
tea  in  silence ;  then  sank  back  sleepily  on  their  blankets, 
into  the  moist  heat  filtered  by  the  tent.  The  hours 
leaped  on,  as  they  lay  there  open-eyed,  yet  insensate 
as  molluscs.  Oh  for  some  roar  in  the  silence,  the  steady 
hum  of  falling  water!  Only  after  creeping  spaces  of 


146       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

time  came  the  soft,  smothered  boom  of  settling  ice,  a 
grim  whisper,  hinting  that  all  those  forbidden  spaces, 
like  their  hearts,  still  were  faintly  fluxible. 

A  golden-edged  shadow  began  to  eat  up  the  thin  wall, 
the  image  of  their  shelf's  edge,  cast  up  by  the  late  sun 
sinking  into  the  nadir  of  the  planet,  tingeing  for  a  mo- 
ment the  cobwebby  fabric,  on  its  flight  into  the  zenith. 

Gail,  sighting  this,  started  up  from  a  deep,  cancelling 
sleep  —  an  oblivion  that  had  seemed  to  border  upon 
death.  He  began  to  shiver  in  the  uncanny,  windless 
twilight.  He  felt  the  high,  awing  region  taking  on 
its  nightly  glaze  of  deadened,  rainbow  hues.  He  was 
strangely  refreshed;  his  head  clear,  with  an  acuteness 
that  amazed  him.  Surely  a  daze  had  pervaded  him 
since  the  moment  that  they  had  reached  the  cliffs. 
What  a  slave  the  mind  was  to  one's  exhausted  body! 
He  regretted  all  that  he  had  lately  said  to  Bob,  or 
thought  of  him,  as  unworthy  and  unfair. 

He  snatched  open  the  flap,  upon  the  silent  starkness 
of  a  world  still  golden,  yet  tarnished,  lustreless.  Its 
sweep  and  vast  complication  annihilated  all  judgment 
of  distance,  keen  as  his  eyesight  now  was.  He  was 
aware  of  Bob  leaning  against  him,  also  gazing  out. 
Some  slant  peak  far  away  appeared  to  exhale  a  whitish 
puff,  like  powder,  and  as  the  hushed  tumult  of  the 
avalanche  touched  their  ears,  they  drew  in  breath  to- 
gether. It  seemed  to  cast  down  their  vision  to  the 
rough  snow  at  hand.  And  slowly  their  eyes  wandered 
off  east,  along  their  shelf. 

This  narrowed,  sheered,  over  an  abyss.  That  was 
as  should  be  from  the  amphitheatre  behind  the  cubical 
spur.  Then  they  glanced  up  the  clean  black  wall,  at 
its  bands  of  putty-coloured  rock,  its  steep  grooves  and 
tottering  pinnacles.  It  was  foreshortened  by  near- 


THE    FIRST    SURRENDER     147 

ness.  Thus  their  eyes  leaped  west,  immeasurable  dis- 
tances. 

"  And  that's  all  the  main  west  ridge  —  our  ridge. 
We're  on  it,  sure,  Gail,"  Bob  declared.  "  But  look  at 
those  higher  cornices.  They  always  mark  a  crest.  It 
can't  be  far  above  them."  He  pointed  toward  the 
curving  caps  of  snow,  drooping  their  traitorous,  over- 
hanging scrolls,  and  huge  for  all  their  remoteness. 
"  If  last  night's  storm  made  them,  we  couldn't  have  held 
the  tent  a  minute  in  it."  He  chuckled.  "  Maybe  it 
was  lucky  we  did  get  stepped  on." 

Now  their  eyes,  sweeping  down  across  sculptured 
bergschrwndsy  among  shadowy  ice-falls,  fell  into  another 
abyss,  larger  than  that  to  the  east  —  a  gulf.  It  gaped, 
an  astonishing  void  of  darkness,  beneath  that  pale  emer- 
ald sky.  Each  felt  the  other's  muscles  tighten.  Gail 
jumped  to  his  feet.  Bob  ripped  out  an  oath. 

"  On  the  horizon,  there,"  he  breathed,  hoarsely, 
pointing.  "Isn't  that  our  V-shaped  pass?  And 
there's  our  first  camp."  They  beheld  the  chasm  of  the 
river  in  the  ice,  now  a  dull  smear. 

"  And  there's  the  square  spur,  there!  We're  not  on 
it."  Gail  spoke  with  a  curdling  directness,  indicating 
the  steepled  brow  beyond  the  gulf.  "  We  haven't  even 
topped  it.  .  .  ." 

"  Gone  wrong  —  wrong,"  Bob  uttered  thickly. 
"  Too  far  to  the  left,  I  told  you  —  where  that  cloud- 
bank  was.  Under  the  big  precipice.  And  we've  only 
climbed  up  to  it,  here  where  the  slide  fell.  There's  our 
amphitheatre  .  .  .  over  there.  .  .  ."  His  voice  broke. 
"  Cut  off.  .  .  ." 

"What'll  we  do  then?"  probed  Gail  coldly,  yet 
loathing  his  own  dependence.  He  felt  his  lips  twist  with 
scorn,  but  he  trembled,  unable  to  face  Bob, 


US      THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Snowden,  jerking  about,  had  pinioned  him  with  his 
eyes.  Their  deep-socketed  dark  blueness  was  black,  as 
he  stood  there  in  his  corduroys  and  grey  sweater,  mo- 
tionless ;  his  flat,  skeleton-thin  cheeks  taut  and  creep- 
ing with  resolution,  towering  over  Gail.  And  Gail, 
in  his  tattered  khaki,  flinched  from  him,  quivering  his 
bleached  and  up-curving  eyebrows. 

"  Do  ?  Go  to  it,  by  God !  "  Bob  blazed.  "  Up  across 
there,  where  the  slide  came  down  —  diagonally,  holding 
to  those  pinnacles,  those  gullies,  those  pasty  streaks  of 
rock,  with  my  eyelids  if  I've  got  to.  What  d'you  think 
I  am  —  that  I'm  a-climbing  for — ?" 

Gail  surrendered.  He  withered  within  himself,  in 
self-reproach  for  his  puny  grasp  of  the  Soul  in  such 
a  Man. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  SECOND 


IN  the  night,  a  wraith  with  Martha's  dark,  suppli- 
cating eyes  floated  across  the  chaos  of  Gail's  dreams. 

Peering  through  the  tent-flap,  they  saw  that  the  wan 
sky  was  cloudless.  Westward  the  frozen  cataracts, 
ribbing  the  sharp  angles  of  the  main  ridge,  exhaled 
an  enchanted,  waxy  pallor.  Downward  they  plunged 
into  a  dusky  welter  of  hanging  ice  and  snow-streaked 
cliff,  all  with  the  somnolent,  metallic  gleam  of  polished 
flint. 

Warmed  by  the  tea,  their  frozen  boots  hammered 
on,  tent  down  and  the  packs  made,  they  started  up  the 
rough  bosom  of  the  slide.  The  settled  windless  air 
calmed  their  excitement  at  the  impact  of  the  decisive 
hours  ahead.  The  surface,  melted  then  frozen,  held 
them,  and  bit  straight  into  the  great  precipice,  whose 
face  bore  the  dark  iridescence  of  the  night  that  had 
elsewhere  fled.  It  met  them  between  two  spires  like 
the  armless  torsos  of  giants  in  effigy.  A  groove  in 
one  of  the  bands  of  pale  rock,  a  kind  of  porphyry, 
shot  up  at  a  steep  angle  across  the  glossy  slate ;  and  to 
the  west,  their  direction.  Soon  easing  blemishes,  in- 
visible from  below,  appeared  to  spread  up  the  slope; 
scant  patches  of  grimy  snow  that  gave  soothing  foot- 
holds, sliding  scree  that  dragged  their  tread  down 
slimily. 

A  gully  folded  over  their  heads  into  a  rock  chimney. 

149 


150       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Emerging  at  its  top,  Gail  saw  Bob's  wide  eyes  sparkling. 
A  miracle  had  flooded  them.  In  the  furnace-touch  of 
the  four  o'clock  sun,  their  chalky  realm  had  burst  into 
a  fiery  translucence.  Its  coat  of  rime  created  a  world 
furred  over  with  glittering  tinsel.  "  One  more  day  of 
this,  one  good  camp,  and  then  the  top,"  exclaimed  Bob. 
He  looked  up  and  led  on.  "  Bet  you,  Gail,  we'll  be  cut- 
ting steps  and  punching  cornices  by  noon." 

His  gaiety  cheered  Gail's  humility  of  the  night  be- 
fore, as  his  transcendent  outburst  then  had  dispelled 
all  Gail's  apprehensions. 

But  exaggerated  by  foreshortening  as  the  wall  had 
been,  it  was  nearly  sheer.  Climbing  became  acrobatic ; 
a  test  more  of  arms  and  biceps  than  of  calves  and  toe- 
space.  Their  first  illusion  that  this  clean,  goat-like 
toil  was  easier  than  ploughing  up  through  the  yielding 
treachery  of  snow,  passed  in  a  quicker  breathlessness, 
a  more  leaden  down-bearing  of  the  packs  upon  their 
shoulders.  For  each  step  upward  across  talus,  they 
slipped  back  two,  hewing  their  axes  forward,  feeling 
sucked  toward  the  precipice  under,  over  which  the  rock 
drift,  moving  in  slow,  relentless  veins,  seemed  to  rattle 
straight  into  the  tramped  circle  and  black  tea  leaves 
on  the  snow  of  camp. 

"  Mountain  sickness.  That's  the  one  thing,  and 
the  worst,  can  do  us  now,"  said  Bob  once,  as  they  rolled 
into  a  shelf  that  slit  the  face  of  rock.  Their  lungs  ex- 
panded like  bellows,  sucking  in  each  breath  as  if  it  were 
their  last. 

Again  the  lapse  from  exaltation  to  mistrust.  Bob 
veered  his  set  face,  quivering,  away  from  the  spectral 
abyss.  Gail  wondered  what  deeper  strain  his  words 
concealed.  But  could  any  man  in  the  stress  of  such  a 
quest,  least  of  all  gripped  by  his  indomitable  aim,  stay 


THE    SECOND  151 

ever  equable  ?  What  matter,  provided  his  guiding  spirit 
did  not  cease  to  flame? 

They  wormed  up  more  chimneys,  scarring  their  fin- 
gers, even  through  the  gloves  on  them.  Their  packs 
swung  like  pendulums,  yanking  their  backs  out  and 
downward,  as  if  from  some  repellent  magnetism  in  the 
rock.  Each  new  stretch  of  cracks  and  pinnacles  stag- 
gered them  backward  with  its  convexity.  The  whitish 
rock  was  rotten  and  powdered  in  their  grip.  Unable  to 
estimate  the  distance  or  angle  of  foot-  and  hand-holds, 
they  braced  themselves,  galvanically  —  and  plunged. 

They  felt  rashly  impelled  into  trap  after  trap,  where 
they  swayed,  overbalanced,  tricked  and  doomed.  The 
precipice  had  lured  them  in  bravado,  and  having  cast 
the  die,  they  made  pride  of  manhood  down  their  love  of 
life,  silence  any  word  of  despair  or  retreat.  The  hidden 
crevasses  of  two  days  back  were  child's  play  to  these 
jutting  ruffs  of  slate.  They  would  gain  an  abutment, 
fall  safe  behind  it,  fasten  the  whole  length  of  their  arms 
and  bodies  tight  upon  its  sheeted  rock,  as  if  some  fiend 
were  striving  to  dislodge  them.  And  the  sweat  that 
started  in  the  palms  of  their  hands,  that  poured  from 
their  foreheads,  smarting  in  their  eyes,  tasted  thicker, 
saltier,  than  any  perspiration  from  mere  wearing  tissue. 

"  Gail,  you  climb  like  a  steeple-jack.  You  don't  seem 
to  care,"  gasped  Bob,  knotting  himself  under  an  arch. 
"  I  have  to  grip  myself,  to  choke  the  crazy  impulse 
to  jump  off." 

Gail  shuddered,  frowning.  "  I'm  all  right  —  so  long 
as  my  hands  stick,"  he  panted.  His  feelings,  dimmed 
by  incessant  reckoning  against  perdition,  were  aroused 
by  Bob's  words.  "  Then  I'm  sure  of  myself,  like  a 
swimmer  on  the  surface  —  no  matter  how  deep  the 
bottom." 


152       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

"  That's  because  you  don't  feel.  It  all  means  noth- 
ing to  you,"  retorted  Bob.  "  The  whiteness  of  every- 
thing swings  me  round  like  a  squirrel  in  a  cage." 

"  Why  the  hell  then  — "  But  Gail  checked  himself 
with  a  flush  of  shame.  He  dug  a  handful  of  snow  from 
the  crevice,  and  swallowed  it. 

"  I  love  it  —  to  imagine  how  it  would  feel,  through 
and  through  me,  to  be  shooting  down  there,"  Bob  went 
on,  "  with  all  that  glory  whirling  to  my  eyes,  my  heart 
upside  down,  the  ice  grinding  in.  .  .  ." 

Gail,  stiffening,  cast  him  a  look  of  dread  and  fore- 
boding. 

"  Oh,  that's  only  height-fear,"  Bob  laughed,  but  with 
a  slight  cackle.  "  I've  allowed  for  it.  ...  And  don't 
eat  snow.  .  .  ." 

He  scooped  up  a  handful  himself,  and  guzzled  it. 


Slim,  organ-pipe  cliffs  had  long  reared  over  them  an 
unending  curtain.  But  noon  found  them  hoisting  over 
a  sharp  lip,  wallowing  into  a  pocket  of  soiled  snow. 
The  spot  where  they  had  camped  had  drawn  itself  in, 
becoming  but  a  narrow  shelf  far  to  the  east  in  the  great 
wall.  They  looked  down  upon  the  glaciers  like  maps, 
whose  arms  —  the  tentacles  of  cuttle-fish  —  they  could 
follow  twisting  into  range  upon  range  of  alps  that 
shimmered  with  the  glint  of  broken  opals,  over  which 
they  falsely  seemed  to  tower. 

When  Gail  spoke  of  eating,  Bob  shook  his  head,  and 
pressing  his  stomach,  said,  "  It  would  make  me 
vomit."  He  took  a  couple  of  gulps  from  the  vacuum 
bottle,  and  throwing  himself  face  down,  lay  motionless. 
Gail  swallowed  tea  and  gnawed  pemmican ;  drew  the 
aneroid  from  Bob's  pocket;  saw  with  a  sinking,  deso- 


THE    SECOND  153 

late  heart  that  it  registered  but  13,000  feet.  They 
had  risen  but  1,500  on  their  diagonal  course. 

He  shouted  this  to  Bob,  who,  as  if  he  had  divined  it, 
scrambled  up  the  cliff,  over  its  brow  —  into  limitless 
snow  again.  It  was  quite  as  perpendicular  as  the  rock, 
yet  smooth  and  frozen  like  iron.  Clapping  on  their 
glasses,  they  began  to  cut  steps,  in  turn  today,  to  har- 
bour strength,  counting  them,  passing  one  another  at 
each  hundred.  The  slope  sheered  to  ice.  The  cutter 
hacked,  hacked  the  flinty  glaze,  slowly,  gingerly  bal- 
ancing himself,  his  head  against  the  upright  field,  paw- 
ing the  powdered  ice  out  of  each  foot-hold,  testing  it 
with  his  down-trodden  boot,  until  the  reckless  leap-up 
of  tautened  muscles.  And  when  he  paused  for  the  other 
to  pass  and  cut,  he  carved  an  extra  step,  dizzily  con- 
torting himself,  braced  with  his  back  to  the  slant. 
Their  four  hands  groped  entangled  over  the  ice,  like 
blind  men's,  and  with  trembling  lips  they  avoided  one 
another's  eyes.  Each  hewed  until  his  arms  ached  with 
his  head,  his  fingers  loosened  insensible  on  the  axe 
handle;  and  when  resting  they  could  not  take  off  their 
out-levering  packs,  which  began  to  feel  alive,  designing 
to  spill  them  over.  .  .  . 

Once,  out  of  nothingness,  as  if  their  panting  had  ex- 
haled it,  the  woolly  globe  of  a  cloud  enclosed  them, 
ballooned  caressingly  upward.  Then  another  and 
another,  with  an  awful  hint  of  the  sky's  fertility  to 
blot  their  sight,  to  stall  them  at  that  giddy  balance. 
And  again  the  diffused,  refracting  rays  inflamed  and 
tortured  their  jaded  pupils.  Light  so  fierce  and  cruel 
was  unbelievable.  With  unstrung  nerves,  they  snatched 
off  the  glasses,  dug  their  foreheads  into  the  dazzling 
wall.  They  stroked  their  irises  against  its  cold. 
Prisoned  as  within  a  burning  glass,  at  the  heart  of  its 


THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

focus,  they  waited  through  moments  that  seemed  hours 
in  an  illusion  that  the  world  was  upside  down  upon  their 
heads. 

But  toward  four  o'clock  this  cloud-forming  ceased. 
The  wall  relaxed  its  pitch.  They  zigzagged,  still  west, 
across  the  bulging  paunches  of  great  bergschrunds, 
from  which  shapeless  gargoyles  drooled  down,  fringed 
with  icicles  that  guarded  pale  green  caves.  All  Alaska 
girded  them,  a  bluish  concave;  and  set  in  its  pit,  like 
clustered  pearls,  swam  countless  peaks  —  bubbles  veiled 
by  a  foamy  wrack  of  cloud.  A  faint  air  from  the  east 
pierced  the  crinkling  windlessness  with  a  hateful  hint. 
Bob  paused  at  a  cone  of  reddish  i*ock  that  broke  the 
crust,  and  pointed  downward. 

"  We're  over  it.  There's  the  square  spur  —  and  the 
amphitheatre  we  hit  for,"  he  said.  "  We're  a  thousand 
feet  above  it,  on  the  main  wall,  Gail,"  He  looked  up 
the  steep,  tantalising  beyond,  ever  unfolding  higher, 
and  his  voice  dropped,  steeled.  "  But  we  got  to  make 
the  crest  of  the  ridge  tonight.  There's  no  level  here 
to  camp,  except  on  these  gargoyles,  and  we  can't  trust 
them  to  hold.  .  .  .  Better  cache  half  our  pemmic&n 
here  for  the  return,  eh  ?  " 

As  Bob  kicked  a  hole  beside  the  cone,  Gail,  staring 
into  the  smooth  bowl  of  the  amphitheatre,  drew  out  the 
gnawed  chunk  from  his  pack.  With  it,  he  produced  the 
round  can  of  alcohol.  He  shook  this.  The  liquid  in- 
side sloshed  about  with  a  weak,  treble  splash. 

At  the  sound,  Bob  looked  up  as  if  he  had  been  struck. 

"What's  become  of  it?"  he  cried.  "Has  she 
leaked?  " 

"No."  Gail  squared  his  jaw  and  shook  his  head. 
"  There's  about  four  more  boils  left,"  he  said,  "  as  I 
calculated  this  morning." 


THE    SECOND  155 

"Is  there,  oh,  is  there?"  laughed  Bob  unwhole- 
somely.  "  We'll  take  stock  on  top  of  the  ridge  tonight. 
I  tell  you,  man  — " 

m 

A  sandy  rumbling  from  below  checked  him.  It 
flushed  into  a  roar.  Straight  upward  from  their  feet 
ripped  a  fissure,  with  a  grinding,  shivering  report. 
There  was  a  flash  of  sea-green  facets,  and  they  felt  them- 
selves tilt  and  swing.  They  whipped  over  on  their 
stomachs,  flinging  their  arms  about  the  red  cone,  screw- 
ing their  toes  into  the  crust.  But  it  dropped  away 
under  them,  in  a  rising  geyser  of  ice  particles.  They 
seemed  to  be  falling  backward,  yet  holding  to  the  rock 
in  mockery  of  balance.  The  uproar  mounted  into  a 
sphere-shaking  thunder,  and  in  a  frenzy  of  contracting 
sinews,  they  landed  hunched  and  breathless  in  the  patch 
of  snow  above  the  cone. 

Thudding  echoes,  and  then  silence.  As  before,  all 
around  them  was  snow,  yet  tons  of  it  had  dropped  away, 
in  a  great  angle  below  and  to  the  left,  sheer  and  jagged 
for  fathoms  down,  with  the  avalanche  that  had  started 
at  their  knees.  Quaking  with  glad  amazement,  they 
looked  at  the  tips  of  their  mits,  tinged  with  the  soft 
scarlet  of  blood. 

"  That  —  that's  worth  living  for  —  a  tight  squeak 
like  that!"  exclaimed  Bob.  "Think  how  it  must  V 
mashed  anyone  following  us." 

"Following  us,"  muttered  Gail.     "You're  mad." 

"  You  got  to  be  up  here,"  he  flashed  back,  joyously. 
"  You  said  so  yourself."  He  narrowed  his  eyelids,  as 
if  someone  were  tickling  him. 

Gail  staggered  on,  bewildered  and  revulsed. 

Ever   upward    they    hacked,    from    hard    bench    to 


156       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

bench.  The  malign,  refractive  light  lifted  levels  into 
steeps,  smoothed  steeps  into  deceitful  levels.  Often, 
feeling  for  the  wall,  they  pitched  forward  into  nothing- 
ness; or  certain  that  they  advanced  through  space, 
crunched  their  heads  against  hard  neve.  The  thin  lip 
of  a  cornice  bowed  over  them.  They  swung  sideways 
up  its  curve,  in  a  speechless  faith  that  they  were  top- 
ping the  ridge.  But  from  its  summit,  the  white  hum- 
mocks only  billowed  higher,  as  an  endless  blaze  that 
killed  hope  as  it  withered  their  eyes. 

Gail  gave  a  random  poke  with  his  axe  handle.  The 
surface  ground  away  into  blue-glazed  spaces.  Trapped 
in  a  maze  of  crevasses  again! 

And  instantly  Bob,  like  a  moth  into  a  candle,  ducked 
his  head  into  that  cavern,  with  a  sharp  cry. 

"  Eyes  —  my  eyes !  "  His  voice  issued,  resounding, 
thinned.  He  swept  his  arms  into  the  hole,  wiping  the 
backs  of  his  hands  slowly  across  the  closed  lids,  as  if 
trying  to  discern  some  vision  upon  them. 

"  Snow-blindness  ?  "  Gail  questioned  softly,  choking 
back  the  dire  dread  that  shook  him. 

"  Knew  it  —  I  knew  it,"  Bob  groaned.  "  It  was 
bound  to  come.  .  .  .  But  don't  camp  here.  .  .  .  And 
it's  pain,  I  tell  you,"  he  added,  as  with  a  triumphant 
stoicism. 

Wrenching  himself  from  the  hole,  he  floundered  to 
his  feet,  reeled  on. 

IV 

Gail  had  cut  steps,  fitted  Bob's  feet  into  them,  guided 
him  up  sapphire  gullies.  He  had  laid  their  axes  side 
by  side  across  the  faint  lines  that  everywhere  girded 
the  slope,  sinisterly  to  gulf  them;  pressed  his  hands  on 
the  wood  to  start  him  groping  over.  Such  navigation 


THE    SECOND  157 

had  set  Gail's  aching  head  awhirl.  The  pain  in  his 
arms  bit  deeper,  his  gasping  grew  wilder  than  at  any 
hacking,  as  he  thrust  in  the  axe  at  every  step,  to  clitter 
away  into  voids.  He  had  done  everything  except  push 
Bob  upward,  all  but  supply  that  relentless  power  which 
goaded  him  on,  dumb  and  uncomplaining. 

For  long  Gail  had  aimed  toward  a  great  overhanging 
lip,  flat  and  glistening  underneath.  He  did  not  now 
fight  with  the  challenged  aggression  of  the  first  day's 
climb ;  he  could  scarcely  feel,  let  alone  reason  about,  the 
obscure,  consuming  spell  that  forced  him  higher.  And 
now,  with  Bob  hanging  at  full  length  from  the  handle 
of  his  buried  axe,  Gail  felt  his  own  head  touching  that 
glazed  ceiling.  It  seemed  to  stretch,  impassable,  across 
the  dimming  splendour  of  all  Alaska.  There  was  no 
way  up  but  through  it.  Cutting  twin  foot-holds,  he 
lifted  his  axe  and  began  to  hew. 

But  through  the  sharp  rain  of  slivered  crystals, 
danced  in  the  back  of  his  eyes  the  smooth  caps  of 
cornices  which  had  cracked  soggily,  as  they  had 
scrambled  off  them  in  fountains  of  fine  snow;  there 
floated  his  suffering,  human  burden,  that  lank  form, 
now  limp,  now  like  stone,  his  brow  wrapped  in  a  red 
bandanna,  his  breath  hissing  between  his  teeth. 

Then  he  was  struggling  with  it  in  his  arms,  up  a 
glazed  chute.  His  head  throbbed  as  if  it  were  being 
hacked  open.  He  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Bob  was 
slipping  from  him  —  they  were  falling  together.  He 
felt  his  body  hurtling,  upon  his  stomach  as  an  axis, 
his  feet  flung  clattering  across  rough  ice,  his  hands 
gripping  the  hair  of  a  head  that  shouted  in  sardonic 
defiance.  Then  a  blow  upon  his  groin.  .  .  . 

Gail  opened  his  eyes,  and  something  clicked  sooth- 
ingly behind  his  forehead.  Suddenly  his  brain  was 


158       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

keener  than  the  pain  that  split  it.  He  was  on  top  of 
the  long  cornice,  with  Bob  face  down  beside  him.  It 
did  not  seem  that  he  had  struggled  there,  but  that  they 
both  had  been  lifted  thither  by  the  kindly  twilight  of 
that  cloud-wrapped  zenith. 

"  Turn  and  turn  about,  hey?  "  Bob's  voice  came  to 
him,  quavering  from  very  far.  "  You  saved  me,  Gail. 
.  .  .  But  why  not  have  let  her  slide?  ...  I  got  a  flash 
of  sight  when  we  hit  that  nub.  The  second  time  I  could 
go  it  myself.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  —  now  — "  stammered  Gail,  stemming  the  hot 
flood  that  surged  upon  his  eyes.  "  Now  I  —  under- 
stand you  —  all  your  talk  about  why  we  live." 


The  shelf  of  snow,  jutting  into  the  unutterable  height, 
gave  scarcely  two  yards  of  level.  A  gust  would  sweep 
them  out,  like  feathers,  into  space.  And  grey  clouds 
in  the  deeps  of  the  world  were  brimming  upward  as  in 
a  filling  cauldron. 

Gail  fumbled  with  the  silk  and  broken  pole;  thrust 
Bob,  blind  and  flaccid  again,  into  his  blankets ;  set  the 
stove  and  melted  snow. 

Bob  recoiled  from  his  tea.  "  Save  the  leaves,"  he 
murmured.  "  Spread  them  on  my  eyes.  It's  the  only 
help."  He  turned  his  sealed  lids  toward  Gail,  and  at 
once  broke  out  into  talk.  As  Gail  poulticed  them,  it 
awed  him  how  Bob's  mercuric  nature  thus  instinctively 
relieved  the  tension.  He  rattled  on  about  snow-blind- 
ness on  his  climbs  in  Switzerland  and  the  Caucasus. 
He  not  once  mentioned  the  shortness  of  grub  and  alco- 
hol, that  they  had  failed  to  reach  the  top  of  the  ridge, 
or  had  camped  upon  a  traitorous  gargoyle.  This 
seemed  to  be  a  designed,  ostrich-like  disregard;  and 


THE    SECOND  159 

yet,  granting  the  sublimity  of  their  adventure,  Gail  re- 
flected, was  it  not  conceived  less  in  cowardice  than  cour- 
age? 

Bob's  cheer  was  electric,  his  enthusiasm  once  more 
infectious.  Yet  dependence  still  streaked  it.  But  this 
tonight,  instead  of  depressing  Gail,  warmed  his  reso- 
lution and  self-confidence.  It  provoked  his  virility  to 
hold  a  momentary  leadership  over  one  who  was  at  once 
the  prophet  and  the  toiler  in  a  faith  so  exacting  and 
relentless. 

Only  the  furtive  stillness  was  ominous  and  dispos- 
sessing. It  accented,  in  the  pauses  of  Bob's  bright 
talk,  the  gasping  bravery  with  which  he  controlled  his 
torture.  The  thought  of  having  ever  grated  upon 
one  another,  or  of  jealousy  and  emulative  pique,  seemed 
irreverent  to  the  coldest  aspect  of  their  fellowship. 
And  all  Gail's  speculation  upon  the  rewards  of  Bob's 
ambition,  which  had  been  working  through  him  like 
yeast  since  he  had  grasped  its  physical  challenge,  he 
felt  was  brightening  in  the  glow  of  an  imminent,  deeper 
revelation.  It  dawned  through  him  that  whatever  this 
might  be,  it  was  inspired  by  his  saving  of  Bob's  life. 
Gail  reviewed  how  his  secrets  had  been  penetrated  by 
Bob  after  that  other  rescue.  And  he  was  aware  that 
his  old  sluggishness  in  reading  any  man's  inner  thought 
was  quickening. 

Bob  felt  in  his  pocket,  held  up  the  brass  disk  of  the 
barometer  for  Gail  to  read.  Its  fragile  hand  pointed 
to  14,100  feet.  "  If  we'd  been  any  good,"  mumbled 
Bob,  "  we'd  have  been  here  at  noon  yesterday." 

He  went  on,  movingly :  "  Feel  the  world,  don't  you, 
swinging  down  there  under  us,  on  some  other  pivot? 
As  if  we  were  the  only  beings  fixed  in  it.  And  the  grins 
of  those  ice  caverns  —  our  faces,  part  of  us  —  the 


160       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

cornices  alive,  too.  .  .  .  The  glaciers  dropping  away, 
trying  to  sicken  your  sight.  Our  bodies  warming  this 
snow  bracket,  like  oil  creeping  through  sand.  So  the 
next  minute,  now  — "  his  voice  rose  to  a  cry  — "  we're 
revolving  bundles  through  space.  .  .  ." 

Gail  found  his  mind  reflecting  Bob's  images,  fearlessly, 
fascinated.  And  he  remembered  that  the  more  fantastic 
such  utterance  had  been,  the  more  efficiently  Bob  had 
faced  each  crisis. 

"  Being  haunted  like  that  is  part  of  the  joy  of  the 
fight,"  said  Bob  with  a  sane  distinctness.  "  But  you 
must  surpass  that.  It's  wearing,  waste  of  the  body,  and 
the  body's  always  chief.  Be  blind  to  it.  Seize  on  the 
will  to  get  there,  work  the  fever  inside  you."  He  hesi- 
tated, adding  gravely,  "  No  man  or  woman  has  the 
power,  the  divinity  of  life,  to  give  himself  to  more  than 
one  purpose  —  one  that  lives  on  after.  .  .  .  For  each  of 
us  there's  an  immortality,  one  way  a  man  can  survive 
himself.  But  there  are  a  hundred  ways  in  all,  and  every 
man's  can  be  different." 

His  running  flame  of  thought  fired  Gail's  intuitions. 
Turgid,  perhaps  fatuous  as  Bob's  words  were,  particu- 
larly for  this  hour  and  this  crisis,  they  yet  seemed  to 
epitomise  the  truths  beneath  its  fusing  drama. 

"  Hold  on ! "  broke  out  Gail.  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  — " 

"What?" 

Gail  caught  his  breath.  It  was  as  if  a  light  were 
blinding  him.  "  Have  you  ever  been  in  love  ? "  he 
asked.  The  words  leaped,  irresistible,  to  his  lips,  from 
the  splendid,  ever-present  mirage  of  one  delectable 
memory. 

"Aren't  I,  now?"  Bob  responded  solemnly,  knitting 


THE    SECOND  161 

his  brows.  "  With  all  this.  And  all  that  comes  of  this, 
if  we  get  there." 

For  an  instant  Gail  was  taken  a-back,  disappointed. 
u  But  with  a  woman,  Bob  ?  "  His  still  seemed  a  cold, 
inhuman  goal. 

"  Don't  you  see?  "  Bob  gave  a  blind,  impatient  fling 
of  one  arm.  "  Woman  or  mountain,  it's  the  same. 
Each  transfigures  you,  enchants,  gives  life  truth  and 
wings,  and  gladness  —  Immortality.  Transforms  your 
thirsts  into  what  lives  —  into  flesh  and  blood,  or  a  death- 
less name,  but  each  as  real.  .  .  ." 

"  So  if  you  fail  to  get  to  the  top.  .  .  .  ?  "  Gail  groped 
with  an  uneasy  eagerness,  and  wistfully. 

"  I'd  lose  a  life  as  you  did.  You  told  me  —  about 
yourself  in  that  hotel.  .  .  .  Oh  God,  my  eyes !  " 

It  was  Bob's  first  unrestrained  cry,  and  it  cut  Gail 
as  with  a  sharp  knife. 

VI 

Gail  strove  to  master  his  emotion. 

Over  his  left  cheek,  the  north  wall  of  the  tent  was 
bulging,  tremulous,  in  the  steady  pressure  of  a  rising 
wind.  Somewhere  a  hollow  crunch  reverberated,  the 
voice  of  a  falling  snow-cornice. 

"  I'm  a  different  man,  now,"  he  murmured  to  himself. 
"  And  yet  the  same.  .  .  ." 

He  thought:  Is  ah1  this  truth?  Or  are  our  words, 
and  is  my  insight,  distorted  by  a  <sorcery  in  this  giddy 
altitude,  by  the  poison  of  wasting  tissues,  by  the  hover- 
ing wings  of  death? 

For  he  saw !  That  deed  and  name  were  no  less  very 
entities  than  life  itself ;  that  they  could  endure  as  stead- 
fast as  all  humanity.  ...  It  was  too  much  to  believe, 


162       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

all  too  vast  for  his  dogged  bluntness  to  accept.  In- 
deed, there  were  countless  forms  of  living  after  death! 

"Look  at  what  every  man  wants,  the  world  over," 
went  on  Bob,  bravely.  "  If  he  gets  it,  that's  how  he 
reaches  any  Hereafter  that  there  is.  Everyone  craves 
some  goal,  even  if  he  can't  tell  you  what,  or  if  it's  short- 
lived, short-sighted  —  beastly.  .  .  ." 

Again  across  Gail's  eyes  drifted  the  dock  in  Seattle, 
and  the  grey,  stubby  man  in  his  vagabondage ;  then  the 
boy  Rex,  and  Jonesy,  with  their  extraordinary  faiths. 
Only,  for  a  heart-rending  space,  he  could  conjure  no 
compelling  likeness  of  his  Clara.  Did  this  portend  the 
vanity  of  Love,  or  symbolise  its  yet  deeper  mystery? 
He  knew!  —  but  from  no  experience,  from  no  worldly 
preaching.  Life  still  must  hold  its  blind,  inexplicable 
faiths.  .  .  . 

«YeS —  yes,"  responded  Gail.  "Didn't  I  tell  you 
that?  I  came  North  to  find  all  this  out.  And  now  I 
know  ...  so  soon.  ..." 

It  had  not  taken  the  lessons  of  a  lifetime  to  compass 
this  wisdom.  He  had  it,  not  as  a  verdict  searched  for 
through  the  multitude,  but  from  one  man's  lips. 

"  Some  men's  work  for  their  goal  dies  with  them," 
persisted  Bob,  in  his  grim  monotone.  "  Because  it's 
selfish,  feeble.  After  some  it  can  live  on  invisible,  for 
years.  That's  if  it's  done  for  others,  in  charity  —  a 
sacrifice.  ...  No  one  understands  mine.  .  .  .  But 
yours  —  yours  is  the  first  passion.  Men  don't  respect 
it,  and  least  on  the  frontier.  .  .  ." 

"  They're  throwing  life  away  in  this  young  world  — 
everyone  is  —  the  men  who  work  and  the  thieves  they 
work  for,"  cried  Gail.  They  were  speaking  again  in 
tense,  staccato  syllables.  Gail's  words  sounded  to  him 
faint,  delirious,  but  he  could  not  check  them.  An  om- 


THE    SECOND  163 

nipotence,  yet  not  that  of  Bob's  quest,  was  voicing 
through  him,  in  revelations,  all  the  long  wonder  of  his 
soul.  "  They  don't  see  why  they're  alive,  responsible, 
for  the  future  of  us  all." 

Gusts  were  whipping  the  tent,  snapping  the  silk  with 
detonations  loud  as  gun  shots.  It  seemed  each  minute 
that  they  must  be  swept  away. 

"  Right  —  right !  "  exclaimed  Bob,  with  an  effort 
at  laughter.  "  But  wouldn't  that  man  who's  following 
think  you  were  the  crazy  one,  to  hear  us?  ... 
We're  up,  man.  It's  only  a  question  of  strength  and 
caution  now.  We're  up  to  the  brow  of  our  ridge." 

But  Gail  scarcely  heard  him.  He  felt  that  a  great 
etone  had  been  rolled  away  from  the  prison  about  his 
being.  The  mounting  surge  of  the  storm  had  been  in- 
spiring music,  which  had  borne  him  truth,  from  the 
malevolent  altars  of  the  Alaska  of  his  dreams.  And 
it  did  not  fade  into  illusion  with  Bob's  bantering  ex- 
orcism. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  mock  you,  Gail,"  he  said.  "  But 
it's  action  we  want  now.  .  .  .  For  you're  the  man  I 
thought  you  were  in  the  beginning,  and  more." 

He  reached  out  a  hand,  and  Gail  felt  its  corded,  bony 
fingers  touch  his  sharp  cheek-bones.  He  gave  them  a 
spasmodic  grasp,  and  rising  on  an  elbow,  gazed  upon 
Bob's  curled,  yellow  head  resting  on  his  crooked  arm, 
his  swollen  eyelids  quivering  ceaselessly,  like  the  wings 
of  a  captive  moth. 

"  But  there's  an  obligation,"  Bob  resumed,  solemnly 
again,  straining  his  voice  above  the  tempest,  "  always 
for  us,  who  get  so  close  to  the  heart  of  life." 

Leaning  on  his  braced  muscles,  Gail  waited  with  a 
thundering  bosom  for  him  to  continue. 

"  I    said,    there's    helping    others    to    their    ends  — 


164?       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

charity.  ...  If  your  goal  is  lost  —  like  Jonesy's  — 
you  must  fight  for  the  next  man's  guerdon.  .  .  .  Throw 
your  strength  and  soul  into  it,  as  you  are  into  mine. 
And  that's  charity- — more  than  any  religion  teaches 
—  because  I'm  not  —  suffering."  He  gave  a  hollow 
laugh ;  then  paused.  "  But  if  any  man  blocks  you  then, 
or  hinders  you  from  your  own  immortalness  — "  He 
burst  into  a  choking,  stertorous  cry,  "  Kill  him  —  kill 
him!  .  .  .  Don't  hesitate  —  and  you  shan't  ever  suf- 
fer." 

He  flung  over  upon  his  back,  panting,  gasping  in  the 
thin  air,  in  the  poiniarding  cold,  in  the  dawning,  lucent 
silver  of  the  low  northern  moon,  which  flushed  up  their 
frenzied  and  pallid  silk. 

"  Sleep  —  now,"  Bob  drawled  at  length,  exhausted. 

But  Gail  could  as  well  have  reached  the  summit  of 
Mt.  Lincoln  that  night  as  slept. 

Bob's  aims  —  his  aims.  To  act,  to  survive,  to  love, 
reasoning  for  oneself:  that  summed  existence.  ...  In 
the  din  of  snapping  silk,  the  onslaught  of  shrill  gales,  the 
muffled  crunching  of  far  snowslides,  Gail  awaited,  fear- 
less, that  final  blast  which  would  sweep  them  out  through 
mid-air.  He  cared  not  whether  it  came  or  not;  only, 
he  knew  that  at  its  instant,  he  would  fight  like  a  cor- 
nered beast  to  hold  the  tent  around  him;  fight,  as  to- 
morrow he  would  battle  with  Bob  against  his  mountain, 
through  crevasse,  cornice,  avalanche,  and  with  the  rage 
of  a  creative  ardour. 

VII 

Their  snow-glasses,  dangling  knotted  about  the  tent- 
pole,  miraculously  touched  Gail's  sight  as  motionless. 
The  gusts  had  died ;  only  a  languid  flapping  of  one  seam 
in  the  wall  persisted. 


THE    SECOND  165 

"  Hark ! "  whispered  Bob,  springing  upright. 
"  That's  the  fair-weather  wind.  It's  now  or  never  for 
our  trick ! " 

He  faced  Gail,  with  open  yet  glazed  and  scarlet  eyes ; 
seized  the  stove. 

"  But  your  sight?  "  Gail  beseeched. 

"I  can  see  you.  Isn't  that  enough?"  he  answered, 
yet  with  a  wince.  "  Only  let  me  eat." 

As  they  lushed  the  soup  and  tea,  broke  and  chewed 
the  hard  pemmican,  Gail  seemed  to  mark  Bob's  body 
tempered  in  the  flame  of  his  will.  Packing  up,  he 
weighed  the  pemmican  in  his  hand,  peered  down  the  noz- 
zle of  the  alcohol  can. 

"  Two  more  boils  of  alcohol  now  we've  filled  the  tea- 
bottle,  and  four  more  eats,"  he  reported,  "  at  14,000 
feet.  When  the  sun  hits  the  loose  snow  on  top  of  the 
ridge,  we  can't  cover  5,000  feet  today,  even  if  the  weather 
holds.  One  more  camp  then.  The  bottle  must  do  for 
noon  and  tonight,  with  a  fresh  boil  for  the  morning, 
to  take  us  to  the  top  and  down  to  the  cache."  He 
paused  abruptly,  as  though  his  reason  were  inhibited; 
then  added  in  a  vague  voice,  "  That'll  be  on  our  nerves 
and  guts,  I  guess,  hey,  Gail?  " 

It  was  half  past  two  o'clock.  The  billowing  white- 
ness, no  longer  sheer,  swelled  north  and  east  toward  the 
summit  of  the  ridge.  All  the  west  in  that  keen  yet 
ghostly  light  was  an  ocean  of  dappled  cloud,  flat,  limit- 
less, upon  whose  shore  they  stood  —  a  tapestry  shot 
with  threads  of  rose  and  violet,  likely  verging  upon  some 
Siberian  coast.  Thither  the  ice-falls  and  cornices  at 
hand  plunged  under  its  rumpled  floor;  but  north,  it 
frayed  into  tongues  and  filaments,  into  skeins  and  skele- 
ton wisps  of  cloud.  Through  their  gaps  they  gazed 
as  into  ocean  deeps,  upon  a  dark  and  sombre,  snowless 


166       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

land,  revealed  far  beneath,  where  here  a  canyon  streaked 
a  greyish  hair,  there  a  lake  or  river  raised  its  polished 
sheen. 

The  cold  stabbed  them,  but  they  quickly  topped  the 
bergschrwnds,  above  all  sight  of  the  up-curving  earth. 
Under  a  glassy  crust,  the  levelling  smooth  fields  lurked 
heavy  and  exhausting  with  waist-deep  snow.  They 
plunged  into  a  curdled  ice-mist,  which  draped  with  im- 
palpable veils  the  lustre  of  a  sky  now  windless  and  quite 
black.  They  no  longer  poked  for  crevasses.  The 
scant  oxygen  screwed  metallic,  torturing  bands  ever 
tighter  about  their  foreheads.  Panting,  feeling  that 
their  senseless  feet  raised  a  ton  from  each  forward  thrust, 
they  took  turns  at  breaking  trail  through  the  deep  drifts, 
each  collapsing  after  fifty  paces,  to  let  the  other  pass 
ahead  as  he  gaped  at  his  ashy-black,  contorted  features. 

Oh,  for  the  sunlight,  which  it  seemed  would  never 
strike  upward  over  the  bulge  of  their  narrowing  realm. 
They  gasped  little  commonplaces :  "  Bang  your  feet 
together.  I've  got  back  the  feeling  in  my  right," —  the 
while  sweat  poured  from  their  temples.  "  I  can't  seem 
to  hold  my  axe.  .  .  .  But  we're  killing  more  height 
than  you'd  think." 

The  stringy  mists  started  to  stir,  to  race.  Creep- 
ing around  the  ridge,  the  wind  began  to  cut  straight 
upon  their  calloused  cheeks,  to  set  aflow  crackling  sheets 
of  a  thin,  powdery  scud  into  their  bowed  faces.  And 
then,  when  hope  for  it  was  dead,  the  sunlight  swept 
them,  quite  heatless,  but  with  the  stab  of  a  million 
lances  into  their  raw  eyes.  The  seething  drift  exhaled 
an  icy  fire,  each  particle  a  flame  of  frost ;  the  haze  flared 
up,  boiling,  like  lighted  powder-grains  —  and  left  them 
ablaze  and  blind. 


THE    SECOND  167 

"  Crest !  —  crest !  "  shouted  Bob,  fumbling  on  his 
glasses.  "  Look,  ahead  there !  " 

They  crept  forward,  down,  until  the  soft  snow  pressed 
up  their  arm-pits.  They  stroked  the  moisture  from 
their  glasses,  as  all  the  vacant,  coveted  universe  of  the 
south  dawned  in  a  glazy  smokiness  against  them.  They 
beheld  as  through  the  large  end  of  a  telescope  sharp, 
tiny  ranks  and  ramparts  —  carved,  bluish-ivory  ema- 
nations —  of  the  coast  ranges,  blear  in  the  moist  haze 
of  the  Pacific,  which  rose  behind  them  in  a  fluid  curtain, 
a  wall  of  dusky  steel. 

As  they  stared,  Gail  heard  a  gentle  crunch  in  the 
snow  beside  him.  He  turned.  Bob  was  staggering  to 
his  feet  again.  He  leaned  forward  on  his  axe,  shaking 
spasmodically,  his  shoulders  heaving.  Tears  were 
coursing  down  his  haggard  cheeks;  they  hung  there, 
frozen.  He  groaned,  fell  forward,  retched  and  vomited. 

"  And  the  rats  are  at  my  eyes  again,"  he  raged 
faintly.  "  Told  you  —  the  sickness  would  come.  .  .  . 
There's  nothing  more.  The  tent  — " 

Gail  felt  his  heart  running  to  water. 

"Wait,  you'll  be  better — "  he  stammered,  shamed 
at  the  eager  fatuity  of  his  words. 

"  No  —  no.  When  the  body's  gone  — "  He  raised 
his  lax,  trembling  arms.  "How  high's  our  record? 
.  .  .  In  my  pocket  —  fingers  too  frozen." 

As  he  dipped  into  Bob's  mackinaw  for  the  aneroid, 
Gail  strove  to  subdue  the  flush  of  pride  in  his  own  bodily 
persistence,  which  lurked  behind  his  flood  of  pity  and 
amazement.  He  studied  Bob's  features  for  the  truth 
of  his  collapse.  But  looks  lie  behind  snow-glasses. 

His  frame  felt  empty,  podlike  to  the  touch.  Gail 
read  through  the  film  that  instantly  blurred  the  warm 


168       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

dial:  16,200  feet.  Bob  gurgled  in  his  throat,  and,  slip- 
ping off  his  pack,  fell  forward  on  his  face. 

Gail,  hurling  off  his  own  burden,  plunged  into  the 
work  of  raising  the  tent.  And  when  he  had  unpacked 
and  spread  Bob's  blankets  inside,  a  desolating  awe,  more 
akin  to  terror  than  exultation,  had  withered  the  guilty 
shadow  of  his  emulation. 

"  I'll  stay  by  you,"  he  muttered,  lifting  Bob  to  his 
feet.  "  Maybe  tomorrow  — " 

Bob  tottered  under  the  low  flap  of  the  tent. 

"  There's  no  tomorrow  —  with  mountain  sickness  in 
me,  at  this  height.  ...  I  know — "  he  uttered,  dis- 
tinctly. 

Another  spasm  cut  off  his  words.  He  toppled  over, 
clattering  among  the  dishes. 

Gail  crowded  him  down  into  his  blankets,  in  the  quick- 
gathering  warmth  of  the  silk, —  that  disembodied  will 
and  spirit,  now  sapped  of  its  transfiguring  force  and 
fire,  lapsed  into  too  mortal  flesh. 

Spots,  some  blanched,  some  hectic,  began  to  show 
under  his  livid  tan. 

vm 

It  seemed  to  Gail  that  he  had  been  sitting  on  his 
blankets  beside  Bob  for  hours.  In  the  long  rush  of  his 
thoughts,  all  his  fears  had  slowly  merged  into  a  great 
incredulity. 

Bob  had  tired  easily  from  the  first.  He  had  grown 
more  pliant  the  higher  they  had  gotten ;  his  aberrations 
had  become  the  more  inane.  He  had  even  mocked  at  his 
quest,  corroded  its  inspiration  with  irony.  And  yet, 
his  zeal  had  always  burned  the  more  dauntless.  Ever 
more  valiantly  he  had  faced  and  annihilated  each  crisis. 
He  had  humbled  Gail  before  the  black  precipice,  and 


THE    SECOND  169 

then  conquered  it.  In  the  throes  of  his  snow-blindness 
he  had  pierced  with  a  grewsome  sanity  the  riddle  of 
Gail's  craving  toward  the  future. 

No!  A  leader  and  a  prophet  —  he  could  not  sur- 
render ! 

Bob  stirred,  writhing  his  face  into  the  sleeve  of  his 
blue  mackinaw. 

"  Go  to  the  top,"  he  whispered  tensely.  "  You're  fit- 
ter for  this  thing  than  I  am.  As  I  should  be  fitter  than 
you  for  —  immortality  —  your  way.  It's  always  — 
the  thing  we  love  —  that  ruins  us.  .  .  ." 

"  Never ! "  exploded  Gail.  He  saw  Bob's  sacrifice  as 
a  martyrdom,  and  tears  warmed  his  eyes.  Then  Gail 
viewed  him  defeated,  ignobly  yielding,  and  he  chilled 
with  scorn.  But  beside  his  listless  disdain  toward 
Jonesy,  this  was  mingled  ice  and  fire. 

"  I  asked  too  much  of  life,"  went  on  Bob,  in  a 
querulous  whine.  "  I  never  deserved  —  Lincoln.  You 
don't  want  it,  so  you  can  win.  You  make  it  —  take 
it."  His  voice  cracked,  passionate,  delirious.  "  I  told 
you  —  about  helping  others  —  if  we  can't  win  our- 
selves. .  .  .  F-f-fight  for  the  immortality  of  others 
when  yours  is  lost.  .  .  ." 

His  words  set  Gail's  blood  surging.  A  releasing 
flame  crept  through  his  leashed  tendons.  His  fury  of 
the  night  past  against  the  defiance  of  that  white,  deadly 
apex  above,  against  all  the  planetary  void  below,  with- 
ered every  scruple.  The  world's  laws  of  action,  justice, 
right  and  wrong,  could  not  penetrate  into  this  outer 
space.  .  .  . 

Gail  felt  as  if  he  were  waking  from  a  long  sleep. 
The  minutes  of  life,  the  instant  for  undying  deeds,  were 
racing  past  him,  never  to  return.  .  .  .  The  wind  had 
died.  The  surges  of  drifting  ice-powder  had  dropped 


f!70       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

into  the  stillness  of  death.  It  was  very  hot  in  there. 
.  .  .  Gail  found  himself  with  set  eyes  and  open  mouth 
close  over  Bob,  who  slept  now,  breathing  easily,  his  el- 
bow, as  always,  crooked  about  his  head. 

He  snatched  up  the  vacuum  bottle.  He  had  made 
no  sound,  yet, 

"  Go  on,  Gabriel,  go  on,"  muttered  Bob's  voice. 
"  Come  back  and  tell  me  — " 

Gail  was  outside  the  tent,  his  pack  on  his  back. 

All  around  him  in  the  blare  of  noon,  there  rippled 
long,  flajl-like  shadows  —  the  revolving  spokes  of  huge, 
twin  wheels. 

The  strawberry  fields.  [Again  he  was  going  to  the 
city  and  his  son,  deserting  a  life  in  the  balance  to  win 
his  own  life's  worth.  He  had  gone  forth  then,  into  a 
blighted  world,  without  regret.  Now  he  was  robbing 
another  of  his  perpetuity  —  with  gratitude. 


CHAPTER  IX 
FULFILMENT 


IT  was  the  moon,  or  the  planet  Mars,  that  he  traversed. 
Yet  to  right  and  left  loomed  earthly  shadows.  Now 
under  the  one  a  troop  of  dwarfed  alps  ploughed  through 
veils  of  pinkish  haze;  now  curtains  that  stiffened  in- 
stantly into  black  perpendiculars  of  rock,  crusting  them- 
selves with  frosty  traceries,  descended  into  the  other; 
then,  in  creeping,  milky  veins,  quivering  as  if  seen 
through  isinglass,  swam  the  tiny  convolutions  of  flat 
glaciers,  rising  to  overwhelm  him.  They  made  a 
sound  like  distant  surf,  which  became  the  granular 
crunch-crunch  of  his  arms  slumping  into  the  upright 
crust. 

Gail  wondered  once  why  his  eyes  were  less  acute  than 
his  ears.  The  boring  pain  had  fled  from  his  temples. 
He  rather  craved  it;  its  absence  was  somehow  ominous. 
He  lifted  his  glasses;  but  seeing  neither  better  nor 
worse  so,  let  them  fall  again.  And  he  was  worried  that 
all  his  muscles  and  his  stomach  felt  so  fit;  he  would 
have  preferred  an  ache  somewhere.  Gasping,  panting, 
he  yet  had  a  sense  of  buoyancy.  He  rested  every 
twenty  paces.  He  was  counting  them. 

He  took  out  his  watch.  Time,  up  to  that  moment, 
had  been  the  figment  of  a  vanished  world.  It  was  three 
o'clock.  From  Bob  at  16,200  feet,  he  had  had  2,900 
odd  to  go.  It  was  impossible  in  that  thin  air ;  still,  his 

mind  was  very  clear. 

171 


172       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

He,  who  in  all  his  life  had  never  fought;  who  had 
ever  cowered  in  the  face  of  its  assaults ;  who,  until  that 
moment  on  the  strawberry  fields  when  he  had  learned 
that  his  flesh  and  blood  had  so  vicariously  persisted, 
had  never  stirred  a  corner  of  his  soul  to  slake  that  great 
and  simple  thirst  for  perpetuity  which  marked  him 
from  his  fellows  —  now  shook  with  a  vindictive  valour, 
as  a  trapped  animal  clawing  from  the  steel,  to  win  this 
stranger's  arbitrary  goal.  It  was  no  obligation  of 
honour,  or  loyalty,  or  brotherhood  that  drove  him  up- 
ward through  that  cold  of  outer  space.  It  was  a  thing 
far  brighter,  stronger,  at  the  springs  of  life.  He  — 
he  —  did  not  know  what  it  was.  Only  there  burned 
across  his  mind,  in  letters  that  seemed  the  logic  of  all 
his  speculations  and  the  verdict  of  his  doubts: 
"  Fight  for  the  immortality  of  others !  " 
For  Life,  which  had  so  malignly  tricked  him;  for 
Nature,  who  had  made  him  in  the  image  of  her  faith  — 
promised  all,  fulfilled  nothing,  struck  him  in  the  face  — 
was  this  the  ritual  of  vengeance,  or  the  creed  of  a  sal- 
vation? 


Struggling  yet  borne  along  upon  a  resistless  current, 
exhausted  yet  soothed,  he  flung  against  a  sudden  steep- 
ness. And  the  ridge  was  narrowing  to  a  knife-edge. 
All  underfoot  slithered  away,  down  and  outward  at  each 
touch  of  his  feet,  although  he  raised  and  trod  them 
lightly  as  an  insect.  Without  or  within  his  head  —  no 
matter  —  he  beheld  two  dark  amphitheatres,  as  of  a 
hollow  cylinder  halved,  and  its  twin  curves  turned  back 
to  back,  pinching  his  white  path,  melting  it  like  tal- 
low. Fear,  a  creeping  thing,  shivered  through  the 
skin  above  his  ears.  Then  rock  scarred  his  hands,  and 


FULFILMENT  173 

he  was  scrambling  up  some  lone  spire,  from  which  he 
would  gaze  across,  through  all  the  suns  of  space,  up  to 
the  summit  miles  above. 

Those  were  cornices  ahead!  Wavered  their  count- 
less, overhanging  scrolls.  He  saw  them  growing,  one 
upon  another,  out  of  that  sheer  wall  —  delicate,  curved 
eaves,  fragile  shelves,  created  but  to  disintegrate  at  his 
touch.  They  were  twisted,  rank,  waxen  yet  filmy  lips. 
They  were  parasitic,  deadly,  monstrous.  And  he  was 
crawling  toward  them,  straddling  a  swinging  ridge-pole, 
pursued  as  in  a  dream. 

They  fell  about  in  stifling,  powdery  clouds  as  he 
plunged  among  them.  Their  snow  seeped  down  his 
neck  and  burnt  him,  yet  the  sweat  dropped  from  his 
brow  in  globes  of  ice.  That  fear,  and  his  sense  of  bal- 
ance, which  he  knew  must  be  kept  poles  apart  were  he 
to  hold  his  grip  upon  existence,  mingled  into  one  al- 
loyed stream.  He  could  not  tell  if  he  were  boosting 
up  or  downward,  so  sank  upon  his  back  and  closed  his 
eyes,  to  let  that  superhuman  power  which  impelled  him 
onward  decide  the  issue. 

Then  —  he  was  lying  on  his  face,  his  toes  digging 
back  and  forth  across  coarse,  granular  snow.  He  was 
above  the  cornices!  And  instantly  the  blinding  letters 
swept  again  across  his  brain: 

"  But  if  any  man  block  yours  —  kill  him  —  kill 
him!" 

Could  that  be  the  saving  watchword  for  the  Young- 
est World? 

m 

His  eyelids  opened  to  a  black  sky.  Far  over  a 
smooth,  sagging  waste,  he  beheld  a  turreted  mound, 
crowned  by  a  dome.  Its  crest  was  a  thick,  out-thrust 


174       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

lip  of  greenish  ice,  draped  with  gigantic  stalactites. 
It  was  all  a  hideous  face,  severed  from  its  body  through 
the  jaw,  just  at  the  moment  of  speaking,  and  planted 
there,  upside-down.  Below,  plastered  with  glistening 
webs,  stretched  a  transverse  band  of  wine-hued  cliff; 
and  under,  dull,  grisly  bosses  —  the  lustrous  facets 
seen  from  their  first  camp  on  the  ice.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  cap  of  liberty,  the  final  peak! 

He  whipped  out  the  aneroid,  dangling  at  the  end  of 
its  whang-leather.  He  read:  18,200  feet.  His  heart 
leaped.  He  had  come  2,000 ;  had  900  more,  then.  Or 
did  that  decapitation  leer  90  —  or  9  —  at  him?  Yet 
he  knew  that  threading  its  features,  he  must  hack  every 
step. 

He  was  at  the  base  of  the  image.  He  dragged  the 
point-end  of  his  axe  across  it  with  a  rasp  which  set  heat 
crackling  within  his  head.  He  raised  the  blade  and 
dealt  a  blow.  It  sounded  like  a  pistol  volley.  The 
hoops  of  steel  that  long  ago  had  dropped  from  his  fore- 
head were  clapped  around  it,  drawn  tighter,  tighter, 
in  a  rumbling  vise.  The  letters  dimming  across  his 
brain  blew  up  into  a  pyre,  until  the  inky  arch  of  heaven 
boiled  with  flame.  A  muscular  wave  swept  up  from  the 
pit  of  his  stomach,  gagged  him,  forced  out  his  tongue. 
He  collapsed  forward,  vomiting. 

A  succumbing  lassitude  had  seized  him.  He  wanted 
sleep  —  to  sleep.  A  darkling  film  spread  across  the 
fiery  sky;  but  through  it  danced  incandescent  specks, 
lacerating  his  eye-balls  with  keen  needles.  These 
whirled,  as  in  a  kaleidoscope,  with  the  hum  of  a  wheel 
revolving  into  invisibility,  which  wound  ever  tighter  the 
screw  of  torture.  That  unseen  engine  caught  him  up, 
curved  and  rigid,  planted  him  upon  his  feet.  A  ber- 
serker rage  possessed  him,  With  paths  and  a  bitter 


FULFILMENT  175 

cry,  he  raised  and  swung  his  axe  into  the  face  of  ice. 
It  bit  in,  silent,  as  if  the  slope  were  dough.  He  felt 
his  right  foot  press  into  a  soft  pocket. 

He  would  have  sworn  that  he  was  entering  a  forest 
swale.  White  flowers  covered  ponds  ringed  by  long 
slue-grass.  The  distant,  haunting  clang  of  horse-bells 
floated  from  dead  spruces.  Then  he  was  swaying  in 
the  top  of  a  tall  cottonwood  by  a  foam-flecked  river. 
He  smelt  wood-smoke.  He  was  motionless,  as  the 
world  revolved  on  independent  of  him.  He  laughed. 
He  was  like  the  ivory  ball  of  a  roulette  wheel,  flying 
against  revolutions.  He  was  back  in  his  father's  green- 
baize  place.  So,  he  was  about  to  review  life.  Well  — 
the  crevasse  had  told  him  that  he  could  not  be  going 
to  die,  then. 

IV 

Soft  large  flakes,  big  as  goose-feathers,  were  falling 
all  around,  through  a  stagnant  warmth. 

Light  crashed  through  his  skull,  easing  the  festering 
pressure  there.  He  was  stretched  on  his  back,  with 
arms  extended.  The  cold  flushed  down  through  every 
vein  and  nerve,  like  water  poured  upon  burning  sand. 
And  the  steam  that  exhaled  from  him  clouded  all  over- 
head. He  awoke,  breathing  desperately,  into  a  pearly 
gloom.  He  withdrew  his  fingers  from  the  moulds  that 
they  had  dug  in  the  ice,  leaned  upright,  glared  at  them. 
They  were  stiff  with  frosted  blood.  His  whole  macki- 
naw  was  burred  over  by  a  long  thatch  of  feathery 
crystals. 

He  found  himself  treasuring  that  sense  of  gain  deep 
within  his  being  which  had  marked  his  waking  on  yes- 
terday's final  cornice.  He  felt  the  joy  of  having 
pushed  below  him  bubbles  that  were  peopled  spheres. 


176       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

And  ending  at  his  feet,  he  saw  cut  steps,  little  hacks  in 
the  bluish  ice,  slanting  downward  from  two  ruffs  of 
crumbling  rock. 

The  flakes  ceased  falling.  He  was  back  in  the  world 
again.  From  his  quilt  of  ice,  he  could  look  off  all 
around  the  compass.  Long  haunches,  buttressing 
ridges,  each  curved  beneath  through  air  that  glimmered 
as  he  thought  the  deeps  of  the  ocean  might.  And 
though  he  felt  no  wind,  there  pulsed  and  vanished  from 
one  crouching  brow,  as  from  the  crater  of  a  volcano, 
ghost-white  and  streaming  sheets  of  cloud. 

The  earth  circled  him,  a  bowl  of  shadows ;  now  like 
glistening  jade,  now  softening,  as  if  drenched  with 
rains  that  had  just  ceased.  Then  his  strengthening 
eyes  discerned  faint  lines  of  light:  wires,  coiled  and 
angular  —  streams  belike  —  that  cut  it  with  threads 
which  throbbed  like  wind-blown  embers.  Higher, 
higher,  these  crept  toward  the  nether  horizons,  in  pat- 
terns mounting  repeated,  reversed,  as  mirages;  and 
from  the  marges  of  every  filament  glimmered  sapphire 
and  emerald.  Thin,  rending  planes  of  a  ruddy  mist, 
diaphanous  as  shadows  undersea,  leaped  from  rim  to 
rim  of  the  vast  concave.  It  brimmed  with  waves  of 
smothered  gold  and  indigo;  in  the  bands  of  phantom 
rainbows;  with  a  shimmer  of  rose,  cerulean,  and  the 
green  of  summer  seas.  These  fell,  dissolving,  upon 
hosts  of  alps,  bold  and  reticulate,  clean  and  naked  as 
if  momently  created;  thrust  up  empurpled,  phospho- 
rescent, through  light  that  waxed  as  it  expired.  And 
in  the  North  burst  the  fire  as  of  innumerable  windows, 
blazing  in  the  splendid  palaces  of  unseen  mountains. 
Then  twilight ;  and  down  through  the  infinite  miles  was 
no  land,  no  snow,  no  rock  in  all  the  world  as  high  as  he, 

He  was  at  the  summit  of  Mt.  Lincoln, 


FULFILMENT  177 

He  knew  that  he  was  there  because  his  soul  told  him 
so.  His  soul  was  hushed  in  an  overmastering  calm, 
victorious. 

He  knew  the  truth  of  life.  One  voice  had  reasoned 
and  proclaimed;  but  the  debt  of  his  wisdom  was  to  the 
multitude.  There  was  one  responsibility  —  to  the 
race's  future.  That  was  the  burden  of  all  living. 
And  its  faith  was:  Charity, —  or  kill! 


He  sprang  to  his  feet,  gave  one  prolonged  shout, 
and  grabbed  out  his  watch.  It  was  ten  o'clock  at 
night.  "Bob  —  Oh  you,  Bob  —  Bob!"  he1  shouted. 
He  waited  intent,  open-mouthed  for  an  instant,  in  a 
silly  delusion  that  he  might  get  an  answer,  or  at  least 
an  echo;  and  began  to  laugh  again. 

Then,  piercing  his  intoxication,  all  the  scoriated 
fibres  of  his  nerves  and  muscles  exacted  their  bodily 
toll.  Cold  shrivelled  him;  excruciating  fetters  clamped 
his  eyes  and  temples;  he  ached  with  sudden  thirst  and 
hunger.  He  had  felt  that  he  was  treading  upon  air, 
because  his  feet  were  frozen.  He  dumped  his  pack 
out,  unscrewed  the  bottle,  gulped  at  it,  gnawed  pem- 
mican,  saw,  with  but  faint  regret,  that  he  had  no  instru- 
ments nor  the  camera.  But  knotted  in  a  sock  was  a 
tin  tube  with  a  film  in  it.  On  this  he  scratched  Bob's 
name  with  the  handle  of  his  knife.  It  could  not  rust 
in  that  airless  cold,  he  told  himself,  and  thoughtless  of 
his  own  name,  heaved  over  upon  it  one  of  the  ruffs  of 
crumbling  rock. 

For,  what  had  he  attained?  Another's  immortality. 
A  name.  And  what  was  that?  A  living  name  for 
having  done  a  foolish  thing  —  that  was  heroic  ?  A 
great  thing — that  was  so  easy?  All  his  exultation 


178       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

ebbed  away.  An  emptiness  spread  within  his  bosom. 
He  looked  up.  The  world  below  had  dropped  deep 
into  a  beckoning  darkness,  deluged  with  the  sleep  and 
rest  he  craved.  Those  near  haunches  sprang  out 
ashen;  he  seemed  to  hear  their  cloudy  banners  mur- 
muring. 

He>  stumbled  toward  the  ladder  of  hacked  steps. 
His  certainty  of  having  been  upon  the  summit 
evaporated.  .  .  . 

He  was  sliding  fast  downward,  his  back  to  the  slope, 
his  heels  thumping  into  carved  hollows.  He  saw  lights, 
which  he  knew  were  unreal,  spring  out  in  the  black 
cave  of  the  world.  All  around  spread  peopled  cities, 
and  he  heard  the  hum  of  traffic  in  their  streets.  Then 
he  felt  the  illimitable  gloom  of  forests  rushing  upward, 
saw  the  star-lit  gleam  of  rivers ;  will-o'-the-wisps  flashed 
across  them;  pale  emanations  arose  —  smoke  from  the 
camp-fires  of  men.  And  close  above,  the  sky  flung  its 
minute  and  incandescent  welter  of  creation. 

Living  presences  swept  past  him.  They  whispered 
of  human  fellowship,  of  the  voids  in  men's  souls,  and 
the  bridges  that  the  thoughts  of  friends  cast  toward 
one  another.  And  one  image  became  very  clear:  Bob 
—  so  inspired  and  defeated  —  that  gaunt  figure  lying 
in  his  blankets,  an  arm  crooked  about  his  head.  He 
was  the  friend.  .  .  . 

Down,  down  through  the  grey  lunar  spaces ;  into  the 
broken  chaos  of  the  cornices.  Craftily  he  spotted  his 
old  foot-tracks,  now  drifted  full  of  snow.  Gusts  be- 
gan to  sigh  about  him.  He  was  crawling  on  his  stom- 
ach across  the  swinging  knife-edge,  between  the  cylin- 
ders of  darkness. 

A  nebulous  soft  light  pervaded  the  fields.  The  snow 
cast  out  violet  shadows;  its  hollows  bubbled  with  them, 


FULFILMENT  179 

Southwest,  over  the  dim  shroud  of  the  Pacific,  dawned 
a  red-gold  streak,  broadening  into  the  sickle  of  the 
moon. 

The  tent  was  there  before  him,  flapping,  lurching, 
in  the  rising  wind.  It  looked  animate,  drunken ;  it  had 
a  repellent  lure,  as  if  it  had  stood  there,  for  years, 
deserted. 

Gail  stopped.     "Bob  —  Bob!"  he  called. 

No  answer.     He  plunged  through  the  flap. 

VI 

He  still  was  lying  on  his  stomach,  but  the  head  had 
slipped  from  its  elbow,  and  was  craned  forward,  up- 
ward. Gail  touched  his  curled,  shining  hair.  It  felt 
brittle,  and  seemed  to  crumble  under  his  palms. 

The  other  arm  reached  across  the  blanket,  resting 
on  the  empty  can  of  alcohol  among  the  dishes.  All 
over  his  blankets  grew  the  long,  needle-like  rime,  like 
mildew. 

Wildly,  with  a  breaking  heart,  Gail  heaved  over  that 
iron  body  upon  its  back.  Bob  had  never  looked  so 
young,  so  boyish,  callow.  But  his  parted  lips  were 
puffy,  scalded  with  snow-sores,  streaming  with  frozen 
matter.  And  Gail's  eyes  shrank  from  the  parchment 
drawn  so  tight  across  his  high,  wrinkled  forehead ;  from 
the  withered,  crumpled  skin  of  his  sharp  chin,  the  frost- 
encrusted  eyelashes,  like  two  white  arcs  in  the  blue- 
black  gouges  of  their  sockets. 

Had  he  no  tears  ?  —  he  asked  himself.  He  fell,  with 
a  gorge  of  anger,  upon  that  cold  and  stony  forehead. 

It  was  not  the  blighting,  desolating  fury  of  his  grief 
in  the  lodging-house ;  nor  did  sorrow  transfigure  it  with 
any  tenderness  or  sentiment.  Gail  had  never  had  a 
friend  before,  and  his  new-discovered  world  of  fellow 


180       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

ship  was  born  in  sacrifice  and  vengeance;  embraced  no 
single  being,  but  mankind. 

Death !  And  Bob  had  failed,  as  he  had  failed.  Bob 
had  died  for  a  dream  like  his  own.  And  failure  was 
the  rule  of  life,  else  all  were  gods.  Yet  Bob  had 
transfigured  life  for  him;  made  him,  the  dominant 
jet  helpless,  humble;  the  cowardly  and  ignorant  — 
brave,  wise,  compassionate.  He  was  the  friend  —  and 
prophet.  Gail  felt  the  rage  with  which,  were  Nature 
never  to  requite  his  thirst,  he,  too,  would  pass  this 
threshold. 

Furiously  he  beat  his  axe  against  the  tent-pole,  broke 
it;  tore  the  clinging  fabric  from  his  head,  wound  it 
around  Bob  until  he  had  hidden  the  last  inch  of  his 
body;  left  him,  without  a  backward  glance,  in  the 
sepulchre  he  would  have  chosen. 

The  body!  The  body  was  first  in  life,  clean  or  de- 
filed, in  the  grip  of  whatsoever  aim.  .  .  . 

Axe  in  hand,  he  paused  where  the  faint  thread  of 
their  tracks  curved  under,  out  of  sight.  He  touched 
the  chunk  of  pemmican  and  the  half-empty  bottle  in 
his  pack,  and  started  down  into  the  somnolent  fogs  of 
the  world  and  day. 

A  pure,  auroral  light  arched  through  the  North. 
The  laggard  sun  was  rising  smothered  across  whitish 
bars  of  cloud.  Suddenly  a  dazzling  oval  faced  him  in 
the  western  sky:  a  great  sun-dog,  circling  at  the  cen- 
tre of  its  pale,  crossed  shafts,  a  ghostly  image  of  the 
orb. 

Gail  raised  the  cross-headed  axe  to  salute  this  glory ; 
and  instantly,  out  of  its  glow,  a  hand  seemed  to  seize 
his  free  arm,  to  pull  him  gently  forward,  downward. 
Once  before  he  had  felt  that  soft,  firm  touch :  he  reeled. 
It  was  her  hand.  More  clearly  than  when  his  brain 


FULFILMENT  181 

had  been  blazoned  with  flaming  letters,  he  knew  the 
truth  —  that  Clara  had  led  him  onward  from  this 
hallowed  spot  to  the  summit,  anguished,  raging;  had 
planted  in  his  veins  the  ichor  of  victories. 


BOOK  THREE 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  DRY-FARMERS 


A  PACK-TRAIN  emerged  upon  the  silt  and  boulders  of 
the  Chyta  River  flat.  The  fifteen  horses  scattered, 
paused;  warily,  with  lowered  heads,  they  nosed  the 
muddy  thread  of  glacier  water  bursting  from  the  hid- 
den heart  of  the  range.  Then  five  men  appeared,  push- 
ing through  the  yellowing  willows  that  were  banked 
against  the  slim  and  black  spruce  forest.  All  carried 
long  sticks,  and  walked  as  if  very  tired.  Their  blue 
jumpers  and  flannel  shirts  were  faded  and  patched; 
their  wide,  brown  hat-brims  sagging  and  torn;  their 
long  boots  polished  grey  by  the  brush.  Hallooing  at 
the  horses,  each  made  for  the  beasts  which  he  habitually 
unpacked ;  and  when  every  load  —  chiefly  picks  and 
tools  and  all-but-empty  sacks  —  had  been  piled  with 
its  saw-buck  saddle,  covered  with  its  square  of  tattered 
canvas,  the  five  heeled  off  the  cayuses  up  the  sand-bar. 
A  sixth  man  now  took  shape  through  the  willows, 
loping  fast  but  stiffly.  He  was  a  short,  stocky  bull- 
necked  being  with  quite  white  hair  that  was  circled  by  the 
crownless  brim  of  a  black  felt  hat.  His  drooping  left 
shoulder  seemed  to  steer  him  in  a  curve,  which  he 

checked   only   when   at   the   river's   brink.     There   he 

182 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  183 

dropped  under  a  big  graaiite  boulder,  and  hunching  his 
knees  up  under  his  chin,  stared  downstream,  intent  and 
silent. 

Four  of  the  others,  of  whom  none  had  betrayed  any 
notice  of  the  last,  made  back  toward  the  timber  with 
dunnage  and  axes,  the  tent  and  grub-box,  and  there 
pitched  camp.  But  the  fifth,  a  large-legged  youth  with 
freckled,  untanned  cheeks,  moist  light  blue  eyes,  and 
a  shock  of  rusty  hair,  remained  fumbling  in  a  gunny 
sack.  At  length  he  drew  from  it  a  box  of  cartridges, 
then,  its  tempered  steel  gleaming  dully,  an  automatic 
revolver.  He  walked  over  to  the  camp-fire  where  John 
Hartline,  head  of  the  Chyta  Exploration  Company,  was 
helping  McConighy,  the  red-nosed,  shriveled  little  cook, 
set  the  reflector-full  of  sour  dough  before  the  flames. 

"How's  shooting  the  rust  from  this  iron  tonight?" 
he  drawled  to  Hartline.  "  We're  carrying  a  dead 
weight  of  extra  cartridges,  with  our  home  cache  full. 
The  horses  is  weak  enough  from  frozen  grass,  and 
they'll  get  nothing  but  peavine  here." 

"  No  more  'n  a  dozen,  then,  Luke,"  boomed  Hartline 
in  his  gruff,  kindly  voice.  "  And  watch  out  for  Jones." 
He  nodded  toward  the  white  rock. 

He  was  a  huge,  black-looking  man,  with  broad  shoul- 
ders and  the  square  mat  of  a  beard  that  framed  hard 
features  burned  to  a  glossy  rawness  by  snow  and  sun. 
Rectangular  lines  criscrossed  his  thick  neck  like  those 
of  latitude  and  longitude  on  a  chart.  But  his  bushy 
brows  sheltered  eyes  that  were  grey  and  gentle.  He 
smoked  a  short  clay  pipe. 

"  Mark  me,  we'll  need  every  one  o'  them  ca'tridges, 
coming  out  to  Torlina,"  objected  "  Daddy  "  Mease,  in 
his  fluty,  old  man's  voice.  Over  by  his  dunnage  bag, 
he  was  fitting  on  a  pair  of  canvas  mits  in  which  to  chop 


184.       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

spruce  boughs  for  his  bed.  He  was  stout  and  sallow, 
despite  the  rigours  of  the  trail,  and  a  thin  beard  covered 
his  jowls  like  moss.  "  Lamar  and  his  grabbers  is 
equattin'  harder  on  our  location,  and  better  armed 
than  we  think  for.  You  ain't  all  had  the  dealings  with 
the  hound  as  I  have." 

"  What  did  we  send  our  boys  ahead  for,  but  to  stand 
by  our  ammunition?  "  put  in  Tom  Guiteau.  "  Lamar 
can't  touch  it  with  them  there,  and  didn't  I  pack 
enough  in  last  winter  to  blow  him  out  to  the  coast  ?  " 

"  And  Tom  says  the  MaTshal's  with  us,"  added  Luke 
Sanborn  simply.  "  Come  on  yourself,  Dad.  I  bet  you 
can't  hit  your  old  brown  mare  at  forty  yards,"  he  chal- 
lenged with  a  wink  at  Tom ;  but  Mease  did  not  budge. 

"Blackwood  — that  lyin'  U.  S.  Marshal?"  he 
whined  in  scorn.  "  Lamar'll  have  him  bought  off  by 
now.  They  both  come  of  that  same  Seattle  gang." 

"  Supper,  boys,"  interposed  Hartline,  checking  the 
nightly  argument  upon  the  contest  awaiting  their  ar- 
rival at  Atna  River.  McConighy,  with  the  abrupt 
impatience  of  the  trail  cook,  switched  out  the  bean-pot 
upon  the  tarpaulin,  remarking  dryly,  "Strawberries! 
An'  pinch  off  the  snappers." 

Hands  clattered  the  dishes  in  the  grub-box.  Plates 
were  heaped,  cups  filled,  chunks  of  the  steaming  bread 
pried  loose;  and  all  fell  to  eating  stomach-down  on  the 
crisp  whitish  moss  —  except  Guiteau.  Tom,  carrying 
a  supper,  headed  toward  the  granite  rock  and  Jonesy 
by  the  river.  Returning  empty-handed,  he  helped  him- 
self and  joined  the  others.  He  was  a  dark  youngster, 
still  in  his  'teens,  although  he  looked  older  than  Luke, 
who  was  twenty-one.  Above  a  moleskin  shirt,  he  had 
a  high,  thin-boned  forehead,  and  cheeks  hollow  as  clam- 
shells. A  curved,  sharp  nose,  and  lines  at  the  corners 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  185 

of  his  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  been  cut  with  a  gouge, 
gave  him  a  hawk-like  aspect.  He  wore  russet  boots 
that  reached  above  his  knees  and  a  red  bandanna  tied 
about  his  neck. 

"  Our  friend  hearing  his  horse-bells  and  rattlin'  hob- 
bles tonight?  "  asked  Mease.  But  before  Tom  could 
answer,  McConighy  advised,  "  You'd  think  he  and 
that  Valdez  spook  had  killed  horses  enough  as  partners 
from  '98  down  to  start  a  glue  outfit." 

Since  a  month  ago,  when  Jonesy  had  tumbled  into 
Hartline's  camp,  his  clothes  in  shreds,  his  body  a  cor- 
rugation of  mosquito  bites,  he  had  withdrawn  each 
evening  to  some  commanding  spot,  there  to  peer  about 
solemnly  for  the  "  glacier  demon  "  which  he  swore  had 
lured  his  horses  into  crevasses.  His  mind  had  seemed 
gone.  Beyond  that  he  had  been  packing  for  two 
"  mountain-climbing  dudes,"  and  had  "  quit  them  safe 
enough,"  the  outfit  could  learn  nothing  from  Jonesy. 
They  accepted  him  as  an  old-timer  driven  harmlessly  in- 
sane by  the  harsh  wear  of  the  North.  Yet  certain 
traits,  as  the  appealing  glitter  that  fired  his  wild  eyes, 
equally  at  hearing  Luke  talk  of  his  sisters  or  while  rop- 
ing out  a  mired  horse,  had  moved  Hartline  and  Tom  to 
the  unspoken  idea  of  a  strong  man's  past  pathetically 
wrecked  in  him. 

As  Hartline  and  Mease  started  to  raise  the  tent, 
Luke  and  Tom,  with  the  revolver  and  cartridges,  made 
for  Jonesy's  post.  Arrived  there,  they  leaned  out  over 
the  rock,  oblivious  of  him  as  he  was  of  them.  Tom 
drew  a  bead  on  the  charred  face  of  a  big  cottonwood 
stump  at  the  edge  of  the  willows. 

"  Best  two  out  of  three  in  turn,  Luke,"  he  said. 
"  That'll  make  two  rounds  each  to  the  dozen." 

He   squinted,   steadying  his   hand.     Three   reports 


186       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

blared  out.     Tom  handed  the  pistol  to  Luke,  as  the 
echoes  ravaged  the  treeless  ridges. 

"  Which  mark  do  you  mean  ?  "  blinked  Luke.  He  had 
the  wide-set,  docile,  almost  bovine  features  of  the  farm- 
boy.  Not  even  the  grind  of  Alaska  had  sharpened  his 
sluggish  mind,  or  sophisticated  his  innocence.  "  The 
big  white  stump  to  the  left,"  he  asked,  "  or  that  brown 
log  half  hid  in  them  willows  ?  " 

"The'  ain't  but  one  I  see,"  began  Tom;  then 
checked  himself.  "  Hello,"  he  added,  "that  other's  one 
of  our  packs.  Old  Mease  slings  them  anywheres 
about." 

"  Yes.  The  one  he's  pointing  at,"  said  Luke,  indi- 
cating Jonesy.  "  Look  at  him.  He  ain't  never  done 
that  before  toward  his  demon." 

Over  the  boulder,  they  saw  Jonesy's  right  arm,  ex- 
tended straight  and  rigid  at  the  brown  thing. 

"  And  —  and  —  she's  moving,"  whispered  Luke. 

Tom's  thin,  aquiline  cheeks  and  square  jaw  flushed. 
But  it  was  Jonesy's  pitiable  glance,  turned  on  them  as 
he  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  guttural  cry,  that  held 
them  dumb.  His  heavy  features,  wasted  and  crinkled 
into  a  mask,  his  dull  eyes  swollen  in  their  sunken  sock- 
ets, leaped  out  a-flame.  He  knocked  the  gun  from 
Luke's  hands.  It  clattered  down  across  the  rock. 

"  It's  him  —  him,"  he  screeched,  plunging  forward 
toward  the  bundle  in  the  willows,  "  that  was  going  to 
eat  my  buck !  " 

The  rhythmic  hacking  of  Mease's  axe  ceased 
abruptly.  Distinctly  through  the  lucent  air  came 
Hartline's  voice,  "Spotted  his  ghost,  eh?"  Then, 
resounding,  "  Hold  on  there!  "  Everyone  was  running 
after  Jonesy. 

They  held  off  awed,  as  if  under  some  spell  that  com- 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  187 

munion  between  the  demented  man  and  that  limp  human 
bundle,  prone  there  in  the  evening  glow,  were  an  ordained 
rite.  The  body  lay  huddled  on  its  face.  They  gaz.ed, 
hushed,  at  Jonesy's  corded  hands  passing  eagerly  from 
its  mop  of  matted  and  bleached  hair  —  hair  shot  with 
not  a  few  white  threads  —  down  across  its  frayed  and 
rotted  khaki.  Meanwhile  it  stirred. 

"  Alive,  boys,"  issued  in  an  in-drawn  whistle  from 
Jonesy's  throat,  yet  more  clearly  than  they  had  ever 
heard  him  speak;  and  a  vein  that  rooted  into  the  scar 
at  his  throat  swelled  purple. 

The  harsh  brawl  of  the  river,  pounding  a  bed  that 
reverberated  as  if  it  were  cast  metal,  rang  through 
their  ears.  The  sharp,  surrounding  terra-cotta  peaks 
raised  their  clean,  theatric  slopes  above  the  black  jave- 
lins of  the  spruces  into  a  lustrous,  icy  twilight.  In 
that  keen,  expectant  air  of  the  northern  autumn,  with 
its  portentous  avowal  of  the  emptiness  of  Nature's 
heart  toward  human  death  and  life  alike,  it  seemed  that 
the  buzz  of  a  fly  might  echo  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

Then  Hartline  stepped  forward  with  a  heave  of  his 
great  shoulders,  and  shoving  Jonesy  aside,  gathered 
Gail  gently  into  his  arms,  and  bore  him  toward  the 
exaggerated  brightness  of  the  camp-fire. 

n 

The  faces  ringed  about  him,  lying  on  the  tarpaulin, 
were  stamped  by  the  wisdom,  or  graven  by  experience 
into  living  mirrors,  of  that  agony  to  which  Gail  had 
long  been  oblivious.  Tom  shoved  the  tea-pot  into  the 
ashes,  as  their  eyes  swept  up  from  his  swollen  feet 
wrapped  in  sacking  crusted  with  blood  —  from  the 
skeleton  tendons  of  his  legs  and  the  lumps  of  his  knees 
where  his  trousers  ended  in  a  ravelled  fringe  —  uj> 


188       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

through  the  pulp  of  his  shirt,  under  which  his  sunken 
ribs  gleamed  blue  and  waxy,  to  the  scraggly  beard  over 
the  great,  shrivelled  bulb  of  his  Adam's  apple. 

"  Is  it  a  Siwash  ? "  gaped  Luke,  at  Gail's  pointed 
cheek-bones,  their  enduring  ruddiness  tipped  with  pur- 
ple blotches;  at  his  whitish  eyebrows  slanting  up  and 
outward  from  the  dire  rings  and  hollows  of  his  closed 
sockets. 

Hartline  seized  the  now  singing  pot,  and  tipped  the 
nozzle  to  Gail's  dry-cracked  mouth.  Tom  lifted  the 
head  upon  his  knees.  Its  long  upper  lip  doubled,  slid- 
ing upward,  and  Gail  swallowed.  The  others  took  a 
step  back,  as  if  awaiting  some  upheaval.  A  shudder 
shook  him;  he  coughed,  and  the  flabby  lids  lifted  from 
the  bloodshot  caverns  where  his  dark  eyes  smouldered. 
His  gaunt  cheeks  twitched  grewsomely. 

"  We  almost  shot  you,  pardner,"  Tom  tenderly 
broke  the  hush. 

"  He  ain't  the  chief  dude,"  muttered  Jonesy,  but 
with  a  grip  on  himself  which  again  startled  the  crowd. 
"  He's  the  one  was  a  flunky." 

Gail's  haggard  sight  veered  upon  him.  "I  —  never 
—  had  to  —  eat  your  buckskin,"  he  rasped,  throatily, 
from  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  "  That  last  ptarmigan 
I  shot  was  big  like  an  ostrich."  His  eyes  caught  the 
company,  kindled,  and  he  lurched  his  body  forward  from 
Tom's  knees.  "  Who  -i—  who  are  you?"  he  stuttered, 
louder  and  more  firmly.  "Who  d'you  work  for? 
I'm  Gabriel  Thain.  And  I  quit  him  like  a  dog 
and  made  the  summit.  I  got  another  man's  immor- 
tal — " 

Hartline  stifled  his  words  with  the  spout  of  the  tea- 
pot, and  pressed  a  spoonful  of  the  beans  he  had  been 
mashing  in  a  cup  between  Gail's  teeth. 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  189 

"  Work  for  ourselves,"  said  Tom  doggedly.  "  And 
for  the  country." 

"Hartline?  ....  You're  not  Hartline?  ....  Oh 
—  oh  God  I  .  ..."  Hist  voice  mounted  shrill  and 
faint  with  joy.  He  flung  out  his  arms. 

The  tension  broke.  A  chuckle  of  relief,  beginning 
with  old  Mease,  ran  through  the  outfit.  They  pushed 
forward,  seized  Gail  by  the  hands,  and  Jonesy,  open- 
rnouthed,  dealt  him  a  thump  upon  the  back. 

"  We  heard  of  you  and  that  mountain-climber,"  be- 
gan Hartline  gravely.  "  We  was  at  our  development 
work  up  the  creek  when  you  went  by." 

"  Yes,  where's  your  rich  pardner  Bob  ?  "  suddenly 
broke  out  Jonesy,  with  excited  accusation.  "  Thain  — 
of  course.  But  you  got  to  account  for  Snowden." 

"  Choke  him  off,"  broke  in  Tom.  But  a  glance  from 
Hartline  had  cowed  Jonesy  instantly,  and  he  lapsed  into 
his  usual  maundering  complacency. 

Gail  trembled,  and  his  glance  fell.  Then,  with  an 
effort,  he  extended  his  skeleton  hands  for  the  tea-pot. 
Grasped  between  calloused  palms,  he  lifted  it  to  his 
lips,  tilted  back  his  head,  took  a  long  draught.  His 
raised  eyes  under  half-closed  lids  swept  the  dumb  men 
before  him  with  a  kind  of  furtive  defiance.  Then  he 
reached  for  the  beans,  and  began  quickly  eating  them, 
wolfing  them,  until,  satisfied,  he  dropped  the  cup  on  the 
tarpaulin.  His  saviours  were  recalling  the  outlines  of 
past,  obscure  tragedies  between  partners  lost  in  the 
northern  wastes,  and  there  was  suspicion  in  their  faces. 

With  an  effort  Gail  moistened  his  lips.  "  Dead  — 
Bob's  dead,"  he  said  with  his  first  huskiness.  "I'll 
tell  you  —  don't  judge  me  —  yet."  He  fixed  Hartline 
with  a  blazing  look.  "  I'm  sleepy  —  for  real  sleep 
now,"  he  murmured. 


190       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  Tom !  "  boomed  Hartline.  "  You  get  my  blankets 
ready  for  him.  And  turn  in  now,  all  the  rest  of  you !  " 

Without  a  word,  but  with  backward  glances,  the 
others  obeyed,  following  Guiteau  toward  the  tent. 
Eased  of  his  confession,  Gail's  head  at  once  fell  forward 
and  his  eyes  closed.  Hartline  filled  the  dishpan  from 
the  bucket,  and  when  the  water  was  hot,  unbound  the 
sacking  from  Gail's  feet  and  began  to  bathe  them. 

ra 

Hartline  dominated  his  companions  greatly  by  his 
reserves  in  speech.  At  daylight,  when  McConighy's 
shout  awoke  the  tent,  the  stranger  stood  outside,  booted 
and  dressed  in  John's  buckskin  suit,  shaving  by  the 
campfire.  John  was  pacing  beside  him,  hands  behind 
his  back,  black  beard  pressed  upon  his  chest.  The  out- 
fit knew  then  that  Thain's  mystery  would  not  be  re- 
vealed until  Hartline  saw  fit,  and  then  to  all  impartially. 

They  ate  in  silence,  rounded  up  the  horses,  fell  to 
the  long  routine  of  packing.  Hartline  shifted  the  rose- 
pinto's  load,  which  held  the  gun  to  which  Gail  owed  his 
rescue,  to  Mease's  brown  mare;  and  as  the  train  gath- 
ered to  plough  through  the  river,  shrunk  by  the  early 
September  cold,  he  threw  an  empty  sack  across  the 
pinto's  saw-buck  and  lifted  Gail  upon  it.  In  the  tim- 
ber beyond,  John  seized  that  horse's  halter,  as  Tom 
and  the  rest  took  their  places  in  the  line  behind,  and 
led  the  sixth  day's  grind  of  their  three  weeks'  hike  out 
to  Atna  River,  their  main  cache,  and  the  disputed  town- 
site  called  Torlina. 

Gail's  daze  from  starvation  and  the  poison  of  fatigue 
merged  slowly  into  the  numbness  of  physical  well-being. 
But  his  mind,  still  clouded,  overcome  both  by  gratitude 
toward  these  men  and  anxiety  over  how  they  would 


THE    DRY   FARMERS  191 

receive  his  story  of  Bob's  death,  struggled  vainly  for 
speech,  to  which  Hartline  gave  no  encouragement. 
The  dry  trail  rose  from  dense  spruces  across  mossy 
uplands,  brown  in  the  cool  sunlight,  free  of  mosquitoes. 
The  ease  of  travel  now !  It  seemed  years  since  he  had 
fought  along  that  same  course,  through  the  drizzle,  mud- 
holes,  and  stinging  insect  torture  of  a  hateful  wilder- 
ness. He  began  to  recognise  points :  the  aspen  scarp 
where  Jonesy's  bald-faced  mare  had  cut  a  swath 
through  two  hundred  feet  of  timber,  landing  with  her 
feet  up  in  the  creek  at  the  bottom,  but  her  pack  not 
even  shifted.  And  then  it  struck  him  —  last  proof 
that  he  was  no  longer  clutching  under-cut  black  cliffs 
and  the  lips  of  crevasses,  or  crawling  faint  yet  gorged 
with  sour  blueberries  across  the  crazing  tundra  —  that 
back  where  he  had  heard  the  reviving  rip  of  bullets  was 
the  river  in  which  his  horse  had  turned  turtle  and  he 
had  been  nearly  drowned. 

Hour  after  hour  they  travelled,  not  halting  at  noon. 
They  dipped  into  timber  again,  and  met  Kulana  Creek. 
In  the  saffron  cottonwoods  across  it,  Gail  heard  a  pat- 
ter of  feet  behind  him,  and  turning,  saw  Jonesy  dodging 
up  the  swaying  line  of  packs. 

"  You  ain't  spoke  about  my  daughter,  hev  you?  "  he 
whispered  breathlessly.  "  Don't,  Gail !  " 

"  No,  Jonesy,"  Gail  shook  his  head.  He  recalled 
that  throughout  breakfast  the  poor  man  had  slunk 
about,  shooting  him  uneasy  glances,  as  if  in  warning 
or  remoise.  Gail  did  not  remember  his  truculent  out- 
burst of  the  night  before.  But  Hartline  did.  He 
turned  to  see  Jonesy  seize  Gail  by  the  hand,  mutter, 
"  I'll  stand  by  you !  "  and  plunged  back  into  the  brush. 

"  Jonesy,  you  call  him,"  said  Hartline  slowly,  facing 
forward.  "Why  didn't  we  ever  think  of  that?"  he 


192       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

asked,  as  of  himself.  "  He  trusts  you,  don't  he?  "  he 
questioned  after  a  pause.  ..."  The  truth  is  often 
plain  to  lunatics.  That  man's  feelings  is  right.  We've 
come  to  like  him.  And  you've  started  bringing  out  the 
sense  in  him.  We  couldn't." 

Gail  tried  to  answer  but  failed,  his  heart  was  filling 
so. 

"You've  heard  of  this  outfit,  most  likely  —  Gail/' 
he  went  on,  with  quiet  gruffness.  "  Most  Alaska  has. 
We're  the  dry-farmers  from  Kingdom,  Idaho,  that  won't 
lay  down  to  Lamar  and  his  Wall  Street  crowd.  And 
you  thought  we  might  be  working  for  someone."  He 
laughed  a  big,  soft  laugh.  "  We're  fighting,  man." 

"  Did  I  say  that  ?  "  Gail  managed  to  wonder  aloud. 

"  Whatever  you  are,"  went  on  John,  "  this  coming 
fortnight  you  can't  help  but  get  to  know  us.  I  b'lieve 
your  record's  good;  but  if  it  ain't,  you  might  make 
things  go  hard  for  us  in  the  tussle  we  have  on.  We 
can't  afford  to  have  you  for  anything  but  a  friend,  so 
I'm  going  to  show  you  my  cards  before  I  ask  for  yours." 

"  All  along,  I've  been  looking  forward  to  this  crowd 
—  John,"  Gail  stammered. 

"  The  rest  of  us  is  at  our  station  on  the  high  bank 
this  side  of  the  Atna,"  he  continued,  regardless. 
"  Torlina's  the  old  Siwash  hang-out  across  it.  I  kept 
the  two  youngsters,  the  best  of  them,  and  old  Mease 
with  me.  .  .  .  Talk  of  a  round  peg  in  a  square 
hole.  ..." 

He  told  in  abrupt  and  vigorous  detail  how  Mease,  a 
school-teacher  at  home  in  Kingdom,  at  the  age  of  fifty 
had  taken  a  flyer  in  a  shrimp  outfit.  He  went  out  to 
Klamath,  Oregon,  to  build  a  cannery  that  was  to  be 
the  biggest  in  the  world,  he  had  thought,  a  monument  to 
his  children's  children.  "  And  Mease'll  tell  you  how 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  193 

it  was  the  Seattle  end  of  this  same  Lamar  crowd  that 
froze  him  out,  sent  him  broke,  and  back  to  us  to  hoof 
this  godforsaken  hell  at  his  age,"  he  added.  "  Well, 
maybe.  It  might  help  to  have  him  think  so.  But 
barring  that  he  kicks  like  a  hawg-tied  calf  if  Mac  don't 
brown  his  pancakes,  it's  a  miracle  how  some  round 
pegs  will  fit." 

Ten  years  with  the  roughest  necks  in  Alaska  could 
not  make  Luke  Sanborn  take  a  drink,  or  quit  blushing 
at  cuss  words.  But  he  would  sink  to  savagery  after 
a  fortnight  alone  with  Siwashes.  A  throw-back;  he 
had  their  improvident  ways  and  animal  nose  for  game 
trails ;  could  keep  his  direction  in  blizzards  on  a  glacier, 
track  horses  across  bare  rock,  which  is  beyond  any 
Indian.  His  father  was  the  post-master  back  home. 
"  And  Luke's  the  mommer's  boy  he  looks,"  said  John. 
"  Our  first  day  out  he  lost  the  gun  belongs  to  that 
arsenal  in  the  belt  about  his  waist.  But  he  still  hangs 
to  it.  That's  Luke.  Too  young  yet  to  know  what 
he  wants  out  of  life  —  beyond  killing  a  moose  —  but 
when  he  hits  on  it,  you  stand  from  under." 

There  was  McConighy,  whose  silky  hair,  frail  bulg- 
ing forehead  and  bad  teeth,  reminded  Gail  of  Occidental 
Avenue;  but  he  only  rented  bicycles  and  played  the 
trombone  at  home,  while  now  his  job  cooking  inhibited 
his  locally  famed  wit, — "  like  the  devil  must  be  choking 
off  Bob  Ingersoll,"  he  added  with  dry  satisfaction. 
And  Gail,  listening,  saw  the  sympathy  that  lurked 
behind  John's  roughness,  perceived  a  tenderness  be- 
neath his  brutality.  He  felt  his  own  cheeks  flush  at 
hints  that  brought  the  aims  of  these  pioneers  into  the 
now  wider  horizons  of  his  insight  into  the  basic  desires 
of  mankind,  derived  from  his  dead  partner  and  their 
privations. 


194*       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  Then  Tom  Guiteau,"  said  John.  "  The  best  rust- 
ler in  Alaska,  but  the  only  man  in  the  outfit  I  don't 
trust  to  the  limit,  say  what  you  will  for  his  seeming 
kind  heart.  It's  black  at  bottom,  I  b'lieve." 

He  was  the  only  one  not  from  Kingdom.  Hartline 
had  picked  him  up  on  the  Seattle  docks.  He  was 
drumming  to  a  publishing  house,  selling  sets  of  Shake- 
speare to  "  square-heads  "  in  lumber  camps  who  couldn't 
read  a  word  of  English.  That  took  smartness,  and  he 
had  it.  Last  winter  he  had  freighted  grub  and  arms 
in  to  Torlina,  and  had  been  on  the  trail  for  a  month 
with  Blackwood,  the  U.  S.  Marshal.  "  The  boy's  got 
a  grudge  against  the  world,"  asserted  John,  spitting 
violently,  as  he  kicked  a  windfall  from  the  trail.  "  He 
won't  much  care  whose  claims  he'd  salt,  so  long  as  he 
could  make  the  get-away.  He's  a  foundling,  illegiti- 
mate, and  separated  from  his  wife.  Likely  that's 
blighted  him.  He  knew  most  things  'too  young,  and 
now  don't  believe  in  none." 

But  Gail's  heart,  perversely,  had  quickly  leaped 
toward  Tom,  whom  he  discerned  was  feared,  even  by 
this  dominant  man,  quite  as  much  as  he  was  mistrusted. 
And  in  the  ensuing  silence,  to  the  crackling  of  hoofs 
upon  twigs,  and  the  scrunch-scrunch  of  Hartline's 
strong  legs  in  their  coarse  denim,  the  warring  warmth 
and  bitterness  which  he  had  seen  flash  in  Tom's  yellow 
eyes,  absorbed  Gail,  naturally. 

IV 

Four  years  ago,  the  boys  from  Kingdom  had  "  home- 
steaded  "  Torlina,  receiving  their  papers  therefor. 
Then  Lamar's  "  yeller-legs  " —  mining  experts,  that 
you  wouldn't  trust  with  four  bits  —  had  overrun  the 
country.  He  had  bonded,  then  bought,  every  copper 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  195 

claim  in  it,  except  the  dry-farmers'.  He  had  paid  the 
locators,  whose  dreams  had  become  ashes  after  years 
of  packing  in  from  the  coast  to  work  "  development," 
in  return  tickets  to  Seattle.  "  Then  Lamar  gets  a 
railroad  right  of  way  up  the  Atna  from  the  coast. 
On  the  jump  Washington  withdraws  both  banks  of 
the  river  in  a  forest  reserve,  and  the  day  his  sur- 
veyors pull  into  Torlina  and  we're  up  on  our  claims, 
they're  thrown  open  to  location  by  executive  order  and 
without  notice.  They  jump  our  stakes,  because  they 
have  to  have  the  townsite.  It's  the  only  place  where 
a  grade  can  turn  off  from  the  Atna  to  reach  these 
valleys.  All  the  rest  of  the  country  is  peaks  and  gla- 
ciers on  end ;  and  if  the  Rio  Tin  to,  when  them  Phoe- 
nicians first  struck  her,  was  in  here  —  which  it  is  and 
richer  according  to  all  experts "  (this  without  any 
slur  toward  yellow-legs)  "  it  might  be  so  much  tail- 
ings if  you  didn't  own  Torlina." 

"  We  get  notice  our  homestead  deeds  is  void,"  growled 
on  John.  "  Void,  man !  When  that  land's  ours  by  the 
first  rights  of  men  in  any  territory,  by  all  the  law  our 
country  was  pioneered  and  won  under.  And  this 
spring  we  find  Lamar  planted  there  with  his  clerks  and 
toadies,  backed  by  all  Wall  Street  and  the  Department 
of  the  Interior !  " 

Gail  stiffened  with  such  a  loathing  of  injustice  as 
he  had  never  felt  in  his  life,  anywhere,  before. 

"  Ain't  the  Government  our  policeman  to  guard  this 
country  for  us  that  was  the  first  to  give  our  life  and 
strength  to  it  ?  "  John  demanded  fiercely.  "  Then  why 
is  this  same  policeman  robbing  us?  Handing  over  this 
rich  land,  from  the  people  it  belongs  to,  to  them  that 
never  lifted  a  finger  for  it  until  they  saw  the  wealth 
that  we  uncovered,  but  have  the  bribe  money  to  get  and 


196       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

squeeze  it  dry  like  the  salmon  canners  have  the  coast  ?  " 
His  voice  resounded,  quavering.  He  broke  off,  puffing 
from  the  intensity  of  his  feelings ;  then :  "  And  why 
do  we  hang  on?  Because  a  fight  ain't  so  foreign  to 
our  blood  in  the  West  where  we  was  raised.  But  most 
because  more  than  our  just  rights  rest  on  this  business 
—  the  future  of  all  Alaska,  of  this  last  whiteman's 
country  —  whether  it's  to  go  to  them  that  have  froze 
and  starved  to  get  their  bread  from  it,  or  to  the  wol- 
verine and  jackals  that  make  slaves  of  the  men  in  this 
last  young  world." 

He  paused,  continuing  gently,  in  an  altered  voice, 
"  We  don't  ask  much.  Independants  made  us  any 
number  of  fair  offers  for  our  property  until  Lamar 
come  in.  We  only  want  an  interest  in  the  working  of 
it,  a  stake  to  draw  on,  to  give  our  youngsters  a  better 
chance  in  life  than  we  had.  Enough  money  to  hand 
them  the  education  we  went  without,  and  the  food  which 
means  the  strength  of  their  children,  and  of  our  coun- 
try and  its  people  to  come.  That's  the  only  Here- 
after I  believe  in.  That's  all  in  the  world  that  living's 
for,  I  reckon." 

"Great  heaven  —  I'm  with  you!"  broke  out  Gail. 
A  tightness  gripped  about  his  chest,  and  his  blood 
surged  hot.  "  You  see.  You  understand." 

"  Take  the  home  town,  Kingdom,  that  we're  from," 
his  tone  sank  at  the  confidence.  "  Every  man-j  ack 
there  chipped  into  this  outfit.  Mortgaged  his  ranch. 
And  they're  all  good  people,  though  the  soil  never 
^panned  out  to  what  the  railroads  that  promoted  it 
promised.  There  was  red  fire  and  speeches  when  we 
left  there  four  years  back,  to  come  home  rich  in  ten 
months.  And  we've  been  writing  to  stand  off  wives  and 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  19T 

mothers  ever  since.  And  they  starve  without  we  keep 
our  promise.  But  we  can't  write  '  rich '  no  more.  Four 
years.  ..." 

He  paused  to  light  his  clay  stub,  and  for  an  hour 
more  Gail  watched  over  the  pinto's  flop  ears  John's  big 
shoulders  rolling,  as  he  digressed  upon  Seattle,  Alaska, 
and  the  braced,  sordid  game  of  successful  pioneering 
in  these  days.  He  appeared  to  hug  no  illusions;  to 
face  the  issue  culminating  in  his  hands,  now  from  his 
own  broad,  relentless  view-point,  now  from  Luke's,  or 
Dad's ;  even  from  his  enemy,  Lamar's. 

"  So  this  month  the  case  is  coming  out  of  the  dis- 
trict court  at  Valdez,"  he  ended.  "  Blackwood  '11  be 
hiking  to  Torlina  with  the  decision  —  with  the  papers 
for  us,  or  Lamar,  to  sign  and  take  possession.  You 
can  guess  from  what  I've  told  you,  and  how  we're  out- 
fitted, the  bets  we'd  make  on  that  judgment.  Lamar's 
got  the  ground  now,  and  there  was  gun-play  between 
his  same  outfit,  if  you  remember,  and  those  coal  boys 
on  the  coast  over  harbour  rights  last  year.  Blackwood 
was  the  Marshal  there,  too." 

They  had  reached  a  withered  meadow,  between  a 
black  slope  patched  fantastically  with  last  winter's 
snow,  and  a  grove  of  reddening  aspens.  The  sky  was 
clear  as  glare  ice,  yet  a  vague,  refractive  mistiness,  a 
film  of  sea-green  and  faint  violet  suffused  its  paleness. 

"  Camp  here,"  said  Hartline,  halting  in  the  stunted 
willows  of  the  trickle  from  a  snow-bank.  Gail  leaped 
down,  and  as  the  weary  pack-train  jingled  in,  helped 
Tom  and  the  rest  uncinch. 

"  Now  you  know  the  strike  of  our  lode,"  said  John 
to  Gail.  "  After  supper  you  show  us  the  lead  of  yours, 
and  of  your  pardner  Snowden's." 


198       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 


By  the  time  that  Gail's  story  had  reached  the  point 
of  finding  Bob  dead  in  the  tent,  he  was  secure  in  his 
confidence  that  the  outfit  had  received  it  with  a  search- 
ing sympathy  and  fairness.  They  had  been  just,  be- 
yond his  most  eager  hopes. 

"Hold  — at  that,"  interrupted  Hartline.  «  Judg- 
ing how  we  found  you,  we  can  figure  your  trip  to  here 
at  the  miracle  it  was." 

The  sudden  silence,  checking  Gail's  monotonous, 
avowedly  colorless  recital,  was  intense  yet  uncon- 
strained. 

"When  this  gits  into  the  papers,"  Mease  broke  it, 
"  you'll  have  quite  a  name  as  a  mountain-climber, 
boy?" 

Gail,  panting,  feeling  that  the  weight  of  worlds  had 
been  lifted  from  his  being,  gave  an  exasperated  grunt. 
He  was  elated,  defiant,  flushed  by  this  first  review  of 
his  body's  triumph,  by  his  secret  checking  of  the  bear- 
ing of  every  grim  word  and  detail  upon  his  life's  widen- 
ing scope.  Luke,  who  had  been  burning  a  birch-wood 
fungus,  "  freshening  "  his  last  quid  of  tobacco  in  its 
ashes,  Siwash-wise,  looked  up  at  Gail  with  an  excited 
chuckle  of  wonder  and  admiration.  The  others  re- 
mained staring  before  them  through  the  clear  darkness. 
The  camp-fire  shaded  and  accentuated  the  features 
peculiar  to  each. 

"  Straight  and  dry,  like  a  Geological  Survey  report, 
ain't  it?  "  said  John  at  last,  into  the  bowl  of  his  du- 
deen.  "  We've  all  been  snow-blind  and  some  of  us 
down  crevasses,  and  have  lugged  helpless  men  — "  Gail 
noted  his  sudden  break-off  with  the  reference  to  Bob. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  quit  him,  even  at  his  orders," 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  199 

began  Tom.  "  He  was  out  of  his  head.  .  .  .  Unless 
you  wanted  to  get  to  the  top  just  as  bad  as  he  did." 

« I  __!—_»  Gail  curbed  his  first  hesitation. 
"Did"  had  leaped  to  his  lips.  He  stifled  it  with  a 
qualm  of  misgiving.  He  had  not  considered,  in  his  vivid 
thrall  with  fact,  the  need  of  justifying  his  desertion  of 
Bob. 

"  This  Bob  was  his  leader.  He  obeyed  him  by  going 
on  for  the  top,"  said  Hartline  bluntly.  "  It  wasn't 
for  Gail  here  to  judge.  He  was  likely  as  off  his  own 
nut." 

"  I  didn't  say  that  with  any  thought  of  accusing,  or 
holding  you  responsible,"  muttered  Tom  to  Gail. 
"  Only  you  must  have  had  strong  notions  of  your  own 
on  the  profits  of  getting  to  that  summit." 

"  Profits,"  repeated  John,  weightily,  "  ain't  always 
fame  or  money." 

Gail's  heart  thrilled  hotly  toward  him.  Then  he 
boldly  faced  Guiteau.  Had  the  man  any  inner  inkling 
of  his  unutterable  rewards?  .... 

"Boys!"  boomed  Hartline.  "Do  Thain's  words 
ring  true  to  us,  or  don't  they?  Them,  and  what  we 
read  of  his  nature,  is  all  we  got  to  swing  us  in  report- 
ing this  Snowden's  death  to  the  Marshal." 

The  others,  with  sidelong  glances  equally  toward 
John  and  Gail,  resumed  their  study  of  the  embers.  A 
flush  of  challenged  pride  swept  Gail  at  the  mention  of 
Blackwood  in  this  new  light.  And  he  felt  suddenly 
fortified  by  the  fact  that  these  men  did  not  withdraw 
from  him  to  make  their  comments ;  but  did  so  before 
him,  deliberately,  knowing  that  he  heard  and  as  if  in 
order  that  he  should;  yet  he  was  certain  that  they 
spoke  just  as  though  he  were  not  there. 

In  obedience  to  Hartline's  call  for  a  verdict,  Gail 


200       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

imagined  them  reconstructing  every  point  of  his  nar- 
ration. 

"  I  don't  care,"  he  burst  out,  "  whether  anyone  be- 
lieves I  got  to  the  top  or  not." 

"  Ain't  it  up  to  a  man  that  wants  to  prove  you 
wrong,"  put  in  McConighy,  "  to  drag  his  eyes  up  to 
there  for  a  look-see  at  that  photograph  tube?  " 

"  Well,  I  ain't  the  man,"  spoke  up  Tom  again.  "  I 
say  it's  up  to  Thain  to  convince  folks.  I  don't  take 
any  man's  word  in  this  world  —  like  as  not  not  even  my 
own." 

"  Nor  do  I,"  growled  John,  with  a  shrewd  glance  at 
Guiteau.  "  But  I  believe  Gail  here." 

"  Bob's  bound  to  get  the  credit  some  day,"  Gail  ex- 
claimed with  eager  gratitude. 

Then  Tom  quickly  faced  him.  Gail  saw  that  the 
hard  glitter  in  his  hawk  eyes  had  softened.  "  I  suppose 
a  man  like  you,"  said  Guiteau  intently,  "  is  figuring 
how  to  give  him  that  credit  right  off.  He  deserves  it. 
Didn't  he  give  his  life?  Right!  —  pardner,  but  how's 
he  to  get  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Gail  with  a  wary  scowl.  "  That's  what 
bothers  me." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Well,  this  country  ought  to  have  more  of  you 
mountain-climbers,"  asserted  John.  And  in  this  pause, 
Gail's  thoughts  flashed  back,  in  scorn  and  triumph,  to 
Pritchard  of  the  Seward. 

"  But  don't  you  want  the  fame  of  having  got  to  the 
top  of  Lincoln  for  yourself?  "  Tom  asked  searchingly. 
"  I  should.  You  can  get  and  keep  it  if  you're  smart 
enough  —  a  name  that  might  outlive  any  of  your  folks. 
And  you  spoke  as  though  such  a  thing  might  appeal  to 
you." 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  201 

Impulsively,  Gail  seized  his  hand.  Like  Hartline, 
then,  Tom  did  read  him,  veiledly,  instinctively. 
This  was  not  mere  sympathy. 

"  Get  Dad  here  to  prove  it  for  you,"  broke  in  Luke, 
grinning.  "  And  I  bet  you  he  wouldn't  lose  an  ounce 
of  his  heft  up  on  them  precipices,  neither." 

Old  Mease,  stirred  from  a  brown  study  of  peevish 
incredulity,  yet  frowned  goodhumoredly.  And  Mc- 
Conighy,  addressing  Gail,  elucidated  — 

"  We  told  you  what  Vinegar  Bill,  the  Siwash  at  Tor- 
lina,  got  off  the  time  he  saw  Dad?  He  looked  him  over 
slow-like,  and  turning  to  his  old  woman,  says  in  his 
choky  lingo  and  sort  of  yearning,  '  That  man,  he  never 
went  hungry.'  " 

A  laugh  greeted  this,  from  all  except  Jonesy,  who, 
forgetful  of  his  demon,  had  been  standing  back  from 
the  fire,  open-mouthed  with  dawning  awe  and  under- 
standing. It  was  an  encouraging,  ostentatious  laugh, 
as  if  the  whole  outfit  were  anxious  that  Gail  should 
appreciate  the  satire  upon  Mease.  And  then  Jonesy, 
stepping  forward  into  the  circle,  with  a  thrust  of  his 
white  head,  demanded  aggressively, 

"  Now  you  give  the  decision  you  asked  for  on  this 
pardner  of  mine.  Then  you  listen  to  me !  " 

Five  pairs  of  eyes  fixed  him  in  astonishment  for  the 
silence  of  an  instant.  Then  John's  bass  voice  echoed 
through  the  night,  "  Ain't  we  yet  ?  No  —  by  Goliver ! 
But  did  we  need  to?  Haven9 1  we?  ....  And  any 
man  wants  to  argue  against  us  better  speak  up  or  git 
to  bed.  It's  near  midnight." 

Jonesy  wilted,  overcome  by  his  daze.  "  This  Gail  — 
he's  got  the  makings  of  a  packer  in  him,  too,"  he  mut- 
tered, with  a  melancholy  that  was  lost,  in  the  general 
movement  toward  the  tent,  upon  all  but  Gail.  "  But 


202       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Snowden    and    me  —  poor    fools    dreaming    against 
fate.  ..." 

Outside  the  tent,  Gail  crept  into  the  rose-pinto's 
saddle  blankets,  his  heart  full  to  bursting.  Ah,  life 
was  too  generous  to  him!  The  heart  of  the  North  too 
clear  and  keen  with  wisdom,  too  warm  and  quick  in 
brotherhood.  He  had  gained  all  that  he  had  set  out 
to  find  —  all,  so  far  as  concerned  the  hungers  in  them 
who  should  win  the  virgin  North. 

These  were  the  men  of  Alaska  whom  he  had  conceived, 
conscripts  of  its  unfathomable  spell,  to  guard  the  fu- 
ture of  this  younger  than  all  worlds.  He  had  not 
vainly  put  his  faith  in  that  guiding  Nature,  good  in- 
herently, which  had  inspired  him  on  the  day  of  his 
great  despair.  Bob  was  her  prophet,  of  how  man- 
kind's vicarious  desires  may  transmute  undying  life; 
and  these  men  were  the  touchstone  of  his  truths  for 
Gail,  a  providence  for  him  to  prove  them  by  in  action. 

"  To  give  our  youngsters  a  better  chance,"  John  had 
said.  "  Money,  food,  the  strength  of  their  children, 
of  our  people  and  country.  That's  the  only  Here- 
after." Efficient,  resolute,  responsible,  they  were  of 
the  real  West  in  root  and  fibre.  They  asked  but  for 
the  scaffold  to  build  the  house  of  life,  of  all  the  future ; 
its  stuff  was  of  their  souls  and  sinews.  Neither  labour 
nor  the  riches  of  the  land  was  futile  toward  their 
fatherhood.  And  he  was  of  them  now,  a  link  welded 
into  the  common  chain  of  life,  no  longer  slag  cast  out 
from  the  cauldron  of  the  Youngest  World,  a  pioneer 
in  his  own  soul  at  last.  .  .  .  Would  he  fight  for  them? 
Would  he? 

Then,  impulsively  as  of  old,  misgiving  supplanted 
his  exaltation.  Tom  with  his  searching  mind,  his  cor- 
roded outlook,  his  quick  shifts  to  sympathy,  absorbed 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  203 

and  baffled  him,  clearly  as  he  felt  that  he  could  now  in- 
terpret men.  And  Gail,  as  the  North  had  made  him, 
thought  with  scorn  of  what  he  himself,  too,  had  once 
been.  He  reviewed  again  the  wastrels  in  the  Seward's 
smoking-room,  the  shuffling  multitude  below  the  Seattle 
dead-line,  Madge  Arnold  —  Lena.  .  .  . 

His  tumbling  thoughts  stopped  short.  A  pained 
breath  escaped  him.  .  .  .  Clara!  Had  he  forgotten? 
Never!  .  .  .  Her  tawny  eyes  had  been  the  lodestar, 
piercing  his  manhood,  she  alone  had  saved  him,  de- 
lirious, dying,  upon  those  snows  and  tundras  .  .  .  only 
so  fused  and  merged  herself  into  his  being. 

She  was  with  Lamar  at  Torlina.  They  would  come 
face  to  face.  As  enemies,  or  lovers?  There  was  no 
way  between!  .  .  . 

Staring  into  the  night,  Gail's  eyes  discerned  large 
moving  shadows  at  the  edge  of  the  aspens,  and  he  heard 
the  subdued  and  fitful  clang  of  horse-bells.  His  heart 
surging  less  with  gratitude  than  faith,  he  lay  awake 
till  dawn. 

VI 

Each  morning,  white  frost  gleamed  on  the  scarlet 
buck-brush  of  the  little  tundras  girded  by  stunted 
spruces  that  were  capped  with  nest-like  "  witches' 
brooms."  The  deadly  ponds  of  white  flowers  showed 
cracked,  dry  bottoms;  willow  thickets  where  Jonesy's 
beasts  had  floundered  belly-deep  in  muck  were  pow- 
dered with  reddish  silt ;  and  in  the  fords  where  Gail  had 
stoned  and  shouted  at  them,  swamping  and  swept  away, 
the  torrents,  now  pale  and  greenish,  foamed  no  higher 
than  the  horses'  flanks. 

One  after  another  their  roaring  sank  into  whispers. 
Step  after  step,  hour  after  hour,  day  after  day  —  a 


THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

few  miles  on  the  far  trail.  Across  moist  flats  in  the 
jaundicing  shade  of  big  cottonwoods,  over  windy  passes 
where  the  air  was  white  with  the  filmy  spore  of  fire- 
weed.  And  one  by  one  the  trim  spruces  solemnly 
wheeled  backward.  Peaks  grew  and  glided  among 
one  another,  black  and  sharp,  now  sugared  with  new 
snow,  flame-hued,  olive-dark;  new  ranges  started  up 
and  vanished,  the  old  bore  strange  disguises,  chill  val- 
leys opened  northward,  and  over  all,  until  time  and 
distance  became  queer  notions  —  vagaries  of  that 
covert  wisdom  in  which  the  trail  coiled  on  —  the  white 
sky  and  fretted  cloud  of  the  North  cast  down  their 
iridescent  glamour. 

The  day  before  they  should  reach  the  Atna,  the  other 
trail,  which  Gail  and  Bob  had  followed  from  the  coast, 
joined  theirs.  That  night  camp  was  by  a  willow  creek 
in  a  fold  of  the  tundra  where  ice  formed  toward  morn- 
ing. After  breakfast,  Tom  started  out  ahead  of  the 
pack-train.  He  said  that  he  was  going  to  pull  in  to  the 
boys  at  the  cache  on  the  bluff  above  the  river  by  noon, 
and  asked  Gail  to  foot  it  with  him.  He  was  hammering 
new  Belgian  nails  into  his  long  russet  boots;  Gail  was 
washing  the  last  of  the  dishes  for  McConighy,  who  was 
packing  the  white  grub-horse.  But  on  finishing  liis 
job,  Gail  could  find  no  trace  of  Tom,  and  started  walk- 
ing after  him. 

A  sandy  plain  of  open  jack-pine  and  small  aspens 
slanted  forward.  Behind,  its  horizontal  level  cut  off 
the  shining  mountains  just  under  their  peaks ;  ahead,  it 
lifted  in  vast  bluish  refractions,  like  exhalations,  the 
ranges  beyond  the  river.  The  trail  followed  the  high 
scarp  above  Chenina  River,  which  cut  a  way  toward 
the  Atna  five  hundred  feet  below,  in  a  tangle  of  opaque 
green  threads  and  ruffs  of  foam,  between  fantastic 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  205 

clay  terraces  and  dizzy  steeps  of  layered  silt  and 
iron-stone  gravel.  But  it  was  after  noon  before  Gail 
came  upon  Tom,  sitting  on  a  log  in  the  dry  pine-needles 
at  one  side  of  the  trail,  fanning  himself  with  his  limp 
hat. 

"  You  never  heard  me  shout  as  I  left  the  camp  ?  " 
he  asked,  falling  in  with  Gail,  who,  annoyed  and  certain 
that  he  had  not  called,  did  not  answer. 

"  Hartline  thinks  you're  the  Tiiyu,  rustler  of  this 
outfit,"  Tom  began,  after  they  had  walked  a  mile  in 
silence.  "  The  way  you've  brought  Jonesy  back  to 
life,  made  him  a  dog  at  your  heels  and  a  fire-brand 
against  Lamar,  has  got  John  hipped.  But  the'  ain't 
no  call  for  you  to  rout  us  out  of  the  tent  mornings, 
round  up  the  cayuses,  and  cook  and  wash  so." 

Gail  started  in  wonder  at  the  boy's  motive  in  these 
words.  When  traveling  side  by  side  in  the  weeks  past, 
Tom's  talk  had  been  quite  impersonal,  never  including 
the  outfit  or  himself.  He  would  touch  with  sardonic 
admiration  upon  the  grip  in  which  the  ilk  of  Lamar, 
backed  by  some  juggernaut  of  dollars,  held  Alaska  — 
which  must  be  developed  by  big  capital  or  not  at  all; 
upon  the  wiles  of  its  appointed  agents,  the  alien  judges 
and  marshals,  who  fawned  for  crumbs  of  monopoly  by 
flattering  the  heroic  pioneer,  the  while  colouring  de- 
cisions and  serving  warrants  gun  in  hand  at  the  wink 
of  their  sponsors.  He  would  cynically  portray  the 
fatuous  hopes  and  futile  dreams  of  riches  in  the  men 
for  whom  John  would  have  the  land  developed,  as  a 
reward  for  their  dogged  faith  and  patient  toil  with 
drill  and  hand-sled.  His  cutting  irony  was  the  bitter- 
ness of  frustrated  striving  (not  the  lazy  jealousy  of  the 
Seward  crowd),  and  in  certain  stories  his  words  became 
steeled  and  hesitant,  and  Gail  knew  that  the  boy's  heart 


206       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

warmed  toward  these  victims  of  finance.  But  if  his 
wisdom  so  young  with  the  seamy  sides  of  effort  bespoke 
a  blasted  life,  it  confirmed  Gail's  first  conviction  of  a 
surviving,  instinctive  fineness  in  Tom.  More  and  more 
his  contradictions  absorbed  and  appealed  to  Gail,  re- 
volted and  put  him  on  his  guard. 

"  John's  been  talking  a  lot  to  us  about  you,"  per- 
sisted Tom.  "  But  I  believe  Jonesy'd  be  the  poor  fool 
to  die  for  an  outfit  like  this  if  he  got  the  chance." 

"  Wouldn't  you  ?  "  asked  Gail.  "  Someone  may  have 
to." 

Tom  loosed  his  stuttering  laugh.  "  How  could  you 
or  I  come  out  the  gainer  so  ?  "  he  said.  "  I've  risked 
more  than  life  with  this  crowd  a'ready.  A  row  like  ours 
only  holds  the  country  back.  It's  better  for  Lamar 
and  his  sort  to  own  Alaska,  stake  and  trail,  than 
have  it  lie  idle.  Poor  men  sitting  on  their  claims 
a-dreaming  and  eating  sour  dough  till  they  get  as  white 
as  a  chunk  of  it,  like  Mease  and  Sanborn,  can't  help  it 
any.  They'll  wake  up  to  that  some  day,  and  then  you'll 
hear  them  shootin'  one  another  in  the  scramble  onto 
Lamar's  band-wagon." 

Gail  glanced  suspiciously  at  his  thin,  down-turned 
mouth,  his  long  sinewy  neck  and  curved  nose  thrown 
forward.  There  was  craft  in  his  eyes.  Yes;  Gail 
wondered  why  in  natures  like  his  own  and  Tom's 
the  sleepless,  incessant  struggle  of  the  trail  tempered 
their  muscles  into  iron,  hardened  their  spirit  as  it  hol- 
lowed and  tanned  their  cheeks;  whereas  beings  like 
Luke  and  Dad,  even  Bob,  the  same  ordeal  made  pasty- 
faced,  and  often  flabby  in  mind  as  well  as  tendon. 
Some  hidden  fatality  in  the  land  seemed  to  classify  all 
men  sharply  thus,  irrespective  of  their  bodies'  or  their 
souls'  worthiness  —  dispassionate  Nature,  likely.  Gail 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  207 

had  tried  to  read  some  clue  to  this  in  the  outfit,  but  had 
found  that  the  close  and  sudden  intimacies  of  the  trail 
had  so  saturated  him  with  the  least  detail  in  the  life  or 
personality  of  each  man,  that  he  could  not  withdraw 
his  mind  far  enough  for  any  judgment.  .  .  .  One's 
fellows  in  the  wastes  become  the  sole  evidence  of  ex- 
istence; you  are  part  of  them,  and  they  of  you.  The 
world  breaks  through  only  in  some  crisis,  and  then 
every  character  flashes  out  re-created,  with  defects 
deepened,  resources  intensified. 

"  I'll  trust  John,"  said  Gail,  "  to  pull  us  through." 
Yet  it  struck  him  that  although  he  had  talked  so  inti- 
mately with  John,  he  knew  him  less  than  any  of  the 
others,  was  ignorant,  even,  if  he  were  married. 

"You  notice  how  glum  he's  got  lately?  "  Tom  asked 
quickly.  "  He  has  no  plan  of  fight,  whichever  way 
the  Court  jumps.  Lamar's  always  had  him  locoed. 
We  could  have  burnt  their  cache  and  starved  them  out 
last  year  if  he  hadn't  spoke  against  it  the  last  moment. 
But  you'd  think  to  hear  him  talk  that  he'd  go  through 
hell's  fire  for  his  Kingdom  folks.  I'd  give  a  fresh 
plug  to  know  the  reason  he  holds  off." 

Gail  started.  Yet  he  realised  that  Tom  was  speak- 
ing the  truth.  The  nightly  arguments  about  Lamar, 
except  Jonesy's  rabid  monologues,  had  lapsed  as  the 
contest  drew  near.  A  quiet  dejection  had  seized  Luke 
and  McConighy,  and  Hartline  had  been  couriously  ret- 
icent and  silent,  almost  morose. 

"  Grub  free,  no  jackassing  a  back-pack,  and  forty 
dollars  a  month  —  of  their  own  money  — "  went  on 
Tom  cynically,  "  and  the  sight  of  coming  home  mil- 
lionaires looked  good  to  this  outfit  once.  But  shooting 
dynamite  in  the  ice  and  holding  a  No.  2  drill  in  that 
peacock  ore,  in  three  shifts  through  the  twenty-four, 


208       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

hours'  light,  made  them  homesick  —  after  they  seen 
Lamar's  boys  getting  sixty." 

"  You're  the  man  to  brace  their  spirits,  then,"  said 
Gail.  "  You've  got  a  stake  in  this  outfit,  and  I 
haven't." 

"  Hartline  doesn't  trust  me,"  said  Tom,  slowly,  cast- 
ing down  his  eyes.  "  And  yet,  for  a  man  like  me, 
he  trusts  too  far,  believes  in  me  too  much."  A  rigid, 
shameless  dejection  filled  his  voice.  Gail's  awakened 
penetration  was  utterly  at  sea;  he  had  never  met  a 
man  so  hard,  yet  in  whom  glimmered  such  keen  aspira- 
tion, and  a  reserve  power  infinitely  good,  or  evil. 
"  John's  too  easy.  His  heart's  too  big,"  Tom  went  on. 
"  We  don't  many  of  us  see  the  strength  it  hides.  Likely 
none  but  you  and  me  know  he  looks  deeper  into  things, 
and  cares  more  how  they  pan  out,  than  most  men." 
He  relaxed  the  quick  pace  he  had  been  setting.  .  .  . 
"What  did  he  tell  you  about  Blackwood?  "  asked  Tom 
suddenly. 

Gail  levelled  him  a  quick  look.  Was  the  boy  trying 
to  veil  some  remorseful  confession,  or  temptation? 

"  Only  that  you  were  on  the  trail  with  him  last 
winter." 

"Oh,  he  did,  did  he?"  exclaimed  Tom.  "There's 
no  crime  in  that  is  there  ?  " 

"  He's  probably  told  you,  too,"  went  on  Tom, 
jerkily,  "  how  I'd  throw  him  if  there  was  any  good 
stake  in  it."  He  paused  abruptly.  Gail  could  not 
tell  if  his  admissions  were  sarcasm  or  the  burden  of  pent 
feeling.  They  were  clattering  very  fast  now  over  a 
stretch  of  bare  sandstone,  and  some  sparks  struck  from 
Tom's  new  boot-nails.  .  .  . 

"  What  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  today  was  this," 
Tom  began  after  a  long  pause.  "  I  want  you  to  under- 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  209 

stand  me  better,  as  well  as  I  think  I  see  through  you. 
It  may  come  useful  to  the  both  of  us."  He  cleared  his 
throat  and  spat.  "  I've  been  married  two  years.  Then 
my  wife  had  a  kid.  And  quit  me.  It  wasn't  my  kid. 
I  never  give  her  one  yet.  And  she  was  the  kind  — 
that  had  a  sort  of  yearning  —  unnatural,  I  call  it  — 
for  them.  But  ye  —  ye  Gods !  I  loved  her  —  and  I 
love  her  still.  D'you  wonder  I'm  looking  anywhere 
for  a  head  to  punch?  " 

Gail  winced,  his  head  a-swim.  How  like,  yet  unlike, 
his  own  case!  .  .  .  Another  had  robbed  Tom  of  his 
self's  continuance,  blocked  his  bodily  immortalness. 
And  he,  Gail,  must,  according  to  Bob's  verdict  of  char- 
ity and  destruction,  strive  for  Tom,  as  for  his  partners. 

"  I  wanted  you  to  understand  that  I  ain't  naturally 
bad."  Tom's  voice  broke  through  Gail's  rushing 
thoughts,  trembling  and  boyishly  winning.  "  But  jest 
acid  eaten  toward  life,  for  a  good  cause." 

Gail    placed  a    fervent    hand    upon    his    shoulder. 
"  Don't  ever  feel  shy  of  me,"  he  said ;  and  for  a  time 
the  two  trudged  on  without  speaking. 

"  Hello !  Look  here,"  said  Tom  suddenly,  stopping 
short.  "Blocked  ahead,  eh?" 

They  had  come  to  a  fork  in  the  trail.  Across  its 
larger  branch  had  been  drawn  a  pile  of  dead  birch 
brush.  The  open  way,  less  used,  led  down  the  scarp 
into  the  canyon  of  the  Chenina. 

"  That  clay  cliff  beyond  here  on  the  main  trail  must 
have  slid  off,  the  same  as  last  year,"  the  youth  went 
on.  "  We  got  to  follow  down  the  Chenina  to  its  mouth 
in  the  Atna  below  our  cache.  Then  up  the  shore, 
right  opposite  Lamar,  where  he  could  block  us  from 
the  rest  of  the  outfit." 

Gail,  filled   at  once  with  hope  for  such  a  meeting, 


£10       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

remained  staring,  absorbed  by  the  obstruction.  Anger 
at  the  rebuff,  then  a  misgiving  seized  him.  Had  not 
Tom  been  panting  furiously  when  found  sitting  on  that 
log  among  the  pine  needles?  Could  he  have  back- 
trailed  from  here?  Piled  the  brush? 

The  pack-train  jangled  up.  Hartline  strode  for- 
ward and  scowled ;  repeated  Tom's  fear  about  the  clay- 
bank,  as  he  studied  the  place  for  strange  foot-prints. 

"  Lamar  couldn't  have  got  by  our  gang  and  come 
out  on  the  main  trail,"  said  John.  "  If  this  is  some 
trick  of  his  to  get  a  look  at  us,  we  ought  to  see  his 
tracks  coming  up  from  the  Chenina.  Luke,  take  a 
turn  down  toward  the  river  with  your  eyes  peeled." 

Luke  obeyed;  but  in  a  few  moments  he  rejoined  the 
bunched-up  horses,  reporting  that  he  had  seen  no  hu- 
man traces.  A  hushed,  questioning  speculation  broke 
out. 

"  Then  you  can  lay  your  life  the'  are  none,"  affirmed 
John  gruffly.  "  It's  late  now,  and  I  take  no  chance  of 
having  to  camp  under  Lamar's  eyes  if  we  don't  make 
into  the  boys  tonight.  They  must  'a'  piled  that  stuff 
here  to  give  us  a  hunch.  If  the  clay-bank's  bad,  we 
can  camp  and  cut  a  way  'round  it  tomorrow." 

Gail  noticed  that  as  the  outfit  cleared  aside  the  ob- 
struction, Tom  sullenly  hung  back. 

"  There  must  be  tracks  here,"  said  John,  after  the 
outfit  had  proceeded  a  while  on  the  main  trail. 

All  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  ground ;  but  saw  none. 

"  Likely  he  wore  moccasins,  and  kept  to  the  hard 
spots,"  said  Tom  to  Gail,  both  having  dropped  to  the 
rear;  but  Gail,  glancing  up,  saw  that  his  face  was 
flushed,  his  predatory  look  unusually  striking.  A 
sudden  thought  supplemented  Gail's  notice  of  Tom's 
inaction  at  the  birch  branches. 


THE    DRY-FARMERS  211 

"  I  dropped  my  matches  back  there,"  said  Gail,  turn- 
ing, and  he  retraced  his  steps  to  the  forks. 

There  he  studied  the  leaves  and  pine-needles  on  both 
sides  of  the  trail.  Suddenly  he  fell  on  his  knees,  and 
for  a  moment  his  heart  slowed  down.  .  .  .  He  had  re- 
solved to  stand  by  Tom.  And  who  could  gain  by  giv- 
ing him  away?  .  .  .  Yet  how  like  the  man!  .  .  .  Gail 
sprang  to  his  feet,  and  ran  on  after  the  others.  But 
he  had  put  a  finger  into  the  sharp,  octagonal  marks 
of  new  boot-nails,  where  Tom,  ahead  alone,  had 
gathered  that  brush,  to  separate  the  halves  of  the  out- 
fit. 


CHAPTER  XI 

NEWS  FROM  HOME 


THE  early  dusk  found  them  rising  from  the  bed  of  a 
creek  tributary  to  the  Chenina.  The  clay-bank  glim- 
mered behind.  With  subdued  oaths,  they  had  found 
no  new  land-slip;  and  skirting  the  old  slide  in  a  sullen 
silence,  now  regained  the  open  popple  of  the  plateau. 

They  wound  across  the  broken  rock  and  moss  of  an 
old  lava  flow  from  the  Unalita  volcano,  plunged  through 
dense  spruces,  and  emerged  high  above  the  roar  of  the 
Chenina.  The  trail  clung  to  the  edge  of  the  scarp, 
and  in  the  darkness  the  tired  pack-horses  kept  slipping 
their  hind-quarters  over  it,  scrambling  skittishly  for 
safe  footing.  They  turned  into  jack-pine  once  more, 
traveling  for  hours  with  the  false  sense  of  momently 
coming  out  at  their  cache  on  the  high  bluff  above  the 
Atna,  feeling  that  it  had  swerved  its  course  far  west- 
ward. But  at  last  they  caught  the  red  eye  of  a  fire, 
then  the  pale  mounds  of  tents  looming  in  its  glow,  and 
a  brisk  hum  of  voices,  at  which  John  started,  dropped 
the  pinto's  lead-line,  and  hurried  forward. 

"  Yo-hooo!  "  echoed  to  his  sharp  call.  Then  utter 
silence.  Gail  felt  an  untoward  premonition,  a  fore- 
boding of  fatal  tardiness. 

"  There's  someone  there !  "  broke  out  Tom.  For  an 
instant  the  others  stopped  in  their  tracks  like  pointers. 
"  From  across  the  river,  from  Lamar,"  said  Luke, 
intuitively.  "  It  couldn't  be  from  no  one  else."  Yet 

at  the  fire  on  the  short  grass  of  the  open,  they  appeared 

212 


NEWS    FROM    HOME  213 

at  first  to  dismiss  any  apprehension  in  a  babel  of  greet- 
ings with  their  partners  of  the  advance  guard.  But 
Gail  observed  that  by  the  time  all  fell  to  unpacking 
the  cayuses,  who  waited  patiently  with  drooping  heads, 
the  talk  had  fallen  to  low  tones,  in  groups  and  pairs, 
who  seemed  no  less  oblivious  of  him  than  of  Tom  — 
and  of  a  gaunt,  oldish  man  with  heavy  tortoise-shell 
eyeglasses,  who  was  pacing  importantly  before  the  fire; 
clearly,  a  stranger. 

The  remainder  of  the  dry-farmers  were  mostly 
youngsters,  like  Tom  and  Luke ;  but  their  voices  lacked 
the  spontaneity  of  youth.  Their  set  and  stocky  frames 
moved  slowly,  with  the  slight  stoop  of  gruelling 
workers.  They  had  a  premature  mannishness,  which 
the  light  fuzz  of  hair  reaching  to  their  burned  noses 
and  clear  blue  eyes  belied.  Among  them  were  two 
older  men.  One  was  the  hulking,  full-lipped,  handsome 
man  in  worn  khaki,  who  now  talking  earnestly  led  John 
into  one  of  the  tents.  His  lantern- jawed,  weather- 
beaten  face  showed  that  maturity  was  just  taking  the 
edge  from  a  rare  physique.  The  other  was  a  quite 
bald,  wiry  being,  who  chewed  and  spat  with  nervous 
aggression.  He  had  a  sharp,  pallid  face  intersected 
with  countless  little  creases,  and  a  harelip  which  never- 
theless gave  him  the  aspect  of  continually  smiling. 

Two  bulging  canvas  gunny-sacks  lay  by  the  fire  near 
the  impressive  stranger.  He  had  a  steel-grey  beard, 
but  his  upper  lip  was  unshaven.  He  wore  Siwash  buck- 
skin, but  unlike  Gail's  suit,  his  was  elaborately  fringed. 
Very  wide  cheek-bones  and  a  pair  of  bulging,  red  eyes 
behind  his  thick-rimmed  glasses,  gave  him  a  curiously 
apish  look. 

"  No,  sir !  Our  friends  across  the  river  ain't  sent 
me  over  to  ye,"  he  announced,  oracularly,  as  if  impa- 


THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

tient  of  the  disregard  accorded  him.  "  I  ain't  no 
emissary,  nor  peace-maker,  nor  yet  spy."  He  raised 
his  voice,  and  waved  his  hand  in  the  manner  of  one  used 
to  address  multitudes.  "  But  Uncle  Sam's  accredited 
envoy,  embarked  upon  my  duty  to  ascertain  the  birth, 
marriage  and  divorce  statistics  of  our  fish-eating 
brothers  beyond  the  Scolai  Pass.  And  George  Avery, 
United  States  census-taker,  has  brought  you  boys  the 
mail  from  home,"  he  ended  with  a  simple  unction. 

Staring  about  him,  he  jingled  the  bunch  of  lodge- 
charms  and  the  carved  peach-stone  on  his  watch  chain. 
But  receiving  no  notice  of  his  pleasantries,  he  lifted 
the  gunny-sacks,  untied  them,  and  turned  out  their 
contents  in  two  heaps  upon  the  ground;  the  while  he 
explained  to  Gail  that  his  learning  in  ethnology  was 
vital  to  the  very  existence  of  the  Census  Bureau,  which 
was  breathlessly  awaiting  his  statistics  of  mortality  — 
and  morality  —  in  the  back  of  beyond. 

But  the  delay  with  which  the  word  "  mail,"  and  sight 
of  its  white  piles,  penetrated  the  minds  of  them  who 
had  not  for  half  a  year  heard  from  home,  measured  for 
Gail  their  absorption  in  the  general,  hushed  talk.  At 
length,  pair  by  pair,  their  eyes  wandered  to  the  wait- 
ing letters.  Suddenly  a  swift  change  came  over  every- 
one. They  fell  upon  them  in  an  avid,  searching  silence. 

"  Here  y'are !  Obituaries,  wedding  and  christening 
news  from  the  folks  at  home,"  then  resumed  Avery, 
pointing  to  the  fast-scattering  white  oblongs  and  brown 
bundles  of  newspapers.  "  Oyster-supper  bills  o'  fare 
and  the-atre  programs.  Busted  rattles  and  locks  of 
hair  from  the  kids.  Paid-off  mortgages  to  be  burnt 
right  here  tonight  — " 

"  Ain't  that  coming  a  mite  forward  about  our  af- 
fairs? "  whined  Daddy  Mease,  reaching  for  a  flat  paste- 


NEWS    FROM    HOME  215 

board  package  bound  with  a  string.  And  Tom,  stand- 
ing across  the  fire  from  Gail,  also  looking  on  intently, 
growled,  "  Shut  up ! "  although  the  affairs  of  Kingdom 
were  no  concern  of  his.  Avery  only  shot  him  a  recoiling 
glance,  subsided  and  walked  away  toward  his  own  duffle, 
remarking  appeasingly,  "  Oh,  I  meant  nothing,  boys. 
I'm  with  ye  in  your  fight.  I  hitched  my  boat  this  side 
of  the  river,  and  if  any  of  you  cross  in  it,  mind  you 
return  her,  or  I'll  have  the  Marshal  after  ye  harder'n 
he  is  now." 

"Blackwood?"  exclaimed  Hartline,  issuing  from  the 
tent,  in  a  voice  of  command  that  halted  the  census- 
taker.  "  He  ain't  a-coming  here.  But  has  he  got 
the  papers  from  the  court  ?  " 

"  Nothing  about  that  did  he  say,"  retorted  Avery, 
pompously,  removing  and  wiping  his  glasses.  "  And 
though  he  is  in  the  Gover'ment  service  with  me,  I  tell 
you  that  smart  trimmer  is  looking  for  anyone's  boost, 
now  he  wants  the  next  term  as  judge." 

"  Whatever  Blackwood  says,"  put  in  the  big,  stoop- 
ing man  with  the  weather-beaten  face  beside  John,  "  you 
want  to  believe  the  opposite." 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  had  no  words  with  him,  and  few 
enough  with  his  boss,  Lamar,"  protested  the  census- 
taker.  And  as  Hartline  led  him  to  the  edge  of  the 
clearing,  Avery  could  be  heard  expounding,  "  Now 
there's  a  smart  man,  Lamar,  and  a  square  one,  though 
you  be  his  enemies.  He  looks  ahead  and  sees  what's 
right  for  this  country  in  the  long  run.  And  won't  es- 
timate his  gravel  till  he's  panned  it.  But  that  woman 
with  him  was  a  disappointment,  after  her  reputation 
for  a  screamer.  She's  acting  as  cross-grained  and 
balky  to  him  as  a  grass  widder  been  surprised  by  her 
husband." 


216       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

Gail's  heart  burned,  dizzily,  at  this  news.  But  Avery 
seemed  only  a  wind-bag,  pricked  by  his  own  words.  To 
hide  his  confusion,  Gail  started  to  help  Tom  rustle  wood 
for  McConighy,  who  with  a  bundle  of  letters  in  one 
hand  and  a  spade  in  the  other  was  digging  a  bean-hole 
by  the  fire.  Confusion  had  followed  the  general  grab 
for  letters,  so  that  the  thin,  wiry  man  with  the  pleasant 
harelip  —  addressed  as  Tony  (surname  Hoyt,  Gail 
learned  later  that  eventful  night)  — had  shooed  the  boys 
away  from  the  mail;  and  now  as  he  sorted  and  dis- 
tributed it,  they  squatted  about  like  hungry  husky-dogs 
awaiting  a  mess  of  entrails.  Gail  looked  on,  certain 
that  he  could  get  no  letter,  yet  expectant,  as  any  man 
is  while  watching  mail  distributed.  And  he  had  a  lurk- 
ing idea  that  some  day  the  world  "  on  the  outside  " 
must  reach  him  thus  to  gauge  the  value  of  his  inner 
transformations. 

Hoyt  flipped  out  the  letters,  varying  his  tone  in  call- 
ing each  name  according  to  the  nature  of  the  recip- 
ient. He  seemed  engrossed  in  this,  like  an  actor  in  his 
part;  and  although  he  "joshed"  continually,  his  hits 
were  not  resented.  Gail  divined  that  he  realised  the 
drama  of  uniting  —  here  in  the  northern  darkness 
where  the  smooth,  ghost-like  slopes  of  the  Unalita  with 
its  pig's  tail  of  smoke  were  visible  in  the  starlight  up 
the  valley  —  the  blind  faith  of  sisters  and  mothers, 
who  veiled  their  chagrin  and  yearning  in  homely  sen- 
tences, with  the  guilty  perception  of  that  reserve  in 
these  beloved  ones,  shamed  yet  proud  of  fighting  for 
their  dreams.  It  was  the  climax  of  desperate  months 
in  this  land  of  toil  and  treachery.  With  a  spright- 
liness  more  durable  than  that  of  the  others,  Tony  was 
likely  stifling  his  own  feelings  thus. 

"  What  is  it,  Luke,  a  pair  of  interferers  to  keep  your 


NEWS    FROM    HOME  817 

pants  from  chafing  you  ?  "  he  asked,  handing  him  a  bulky 
package,  which  unrolled  a  knit,  scarlet  muffler.  "  Now 
across  the  river,"  declared  Tony,  "  that  goods  'ud  buy 
you  Chenilna  or  any  of  them  squaws  for  life." 

"Willie  Barrett,  Saw-dust  Willie.  Souv'nirs  of 
the  Subsoil  Exposition  " —  in  falsetto,  to  a  sallow,  pug- 
nosed  boy,  handing  him  two  picture  post-cards.  And 
hoarsely,  clearing  his  throat,  "  Red  Hoffman  —  Peg- 
eye  —  it's  from  her  all  right.  I  could  tell  Nance's  writ- 
ing a  mile  off,"  as  he  flipped  a  heavy,  freckled  man 
a  buff  envelope.  ..."  Here  you,  George  Rankin.  It 
looks  like  sister  Bess  has  got  the  job  she  trained  for  in 
the  normal  school,  and's  practising  on  the  typewriter." 

Each  took  his  letter,  like  a  child  drawing  a  present 
from  his  Christmas  stocking;  and  as  the  white  pages 
fluttered  in  the  firelight,  under  intent  yet  unblurring 
eyes,  the  silences  became  prolonged.  A  tension  crept 
over  everyone.  Occasionally  a  drawn  face  looked  up, 
to  stare  open-mouthed  at  the  clouds  streaming  fast  and 
dark  on  the  needled  Chugatch  peaks,  where  the  Atna 
—  their  Rubicon  —  tunneled  glaciers  to  the  sea ;  to 
gaze  vacantly  about  the  conical  spears  of  the  spruces 
and  trim  ovals  of  willow  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing, 
as  might  entombed  miners  emerging  into  sunlight;  as 
if  they  heard  voices  calling,  or  saw  rehearsed  against 
that  drear  background  the  words  and  actions  outlined 
in  their  letters. 

It  struck  Gail  once,  with  a  wave  of  awe,  that  back 
home,  looking  on  at  what  they  were  reading  of,  they 
would  not  be  moved  at  all.  How  the  North  could  play 
the  devil  with  all  one's  estimates,  even  of  time  and 
space!  He  felt  a  slow  loosening  of  primitive,  relent- 
less human  forces  all  around  him. 

Then  he  caught  Jonesy's  querulous  voice,  over  where 


£18       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

A  very  was  eating  supper  between  a  little  fire  and  his 
tethered  buckskin  mare,  catechising  and  castigating 
the  census-man  as  an  ally  of  Lamar's.  Soon  the 
silences  at  hand  began  to  break.  Someone  would  quote 
from  his  letter,  or  crackling  open  a  copy  of  the  King- 
dom Empire,  relate  how  Ed  Denton  was  seen  on  Main 
Street  yesterday  in  a  silk  hat  and  a  buttonyere  —  but 
also  with  a  few  clothes.  ..."  Doodle  Ogden  has  as 
fine  a  mess  of  watermelons  under  his  south  fence  as  was 
ever  seen  in  the  Northwest."  "  Charlie  Mitchell  is 
awaiting  the  event.  If  it's  a  girl,  it'll  be  the  third. 
Charlie's  betting  the  short  end,  one  to  three." 

"Got  'em  coming,  ain't  he?"  drawled  Luke.  And 
as  friends  were  tolled  off  to  the  altar,  grave,  and  legis- 
lature, Gail  felt  that  Kingdom  was  his  home  as 
well. 

Old  Mease's  fingers  trembled  as  he  passed  around  the 
contents  of  his  pasteboard  missive.  For  long  he  had 
been  quietly  staring  at  it,  his  mouth  twitching  slightly. 
It  was  the  photograph  of  a  weary-looking,  dark  woman 
dressed  in  stiff  black  silk,  and  holding  on  her  knees  a 
baby  girl  and  a  boy  in  knickerbockers.  "  That  looks 
right  natural — iyes,  sir,  that  looks  right  natural," 
he  repeated  again  and  again,  as  if  to  reassure  himself 
of  the  existence  of  the  likenesses.  He  leaned  over  the 
shoulder  of  each  man,  walking  about  to  show  the  picture. 
At  last  after  Gail,  he  was  going  to  hand  it  to  Tom,  who 
was  standing  between  them,  but  hesitated  and  then 
withdrew,  with  a  resentful  glance  toward  him.  But 
Tom  seemed  not  to  notice  this.  He  was  fixedly  watch- 
ing Tony,  who  was  reaching  the  bottom  of  the  last 
stack  of  mail.  Tom  pushed  Mease  aside.  Two  letters 
remained.  Tony,  eyeing  the  address  on  the  top  one, 
tossed  it  up  to  him  without  a  word. 


NEWS    FROM    HO  ME  219 

"  It's  from  the  wife,"  Tom  said  in  a  low  tone  to  Gail, 
seeing  the  handwriting.  And  after  he  had  opened  the 
envelope  and  read  for  a  moment,  he  added  in  a  hard 
voice,  "  She  wants  me  to  come  back.  .  .  .  Hell ! " 
He  turned  abruptly  and  walked  away  into  the  dark- 
ness, leaving  Gail  with  a  mingled  sense  of  guilt  and  of 
deliverance  —  feelings  which  in  some  way  impressed 
him  as  a  part  of  Tom's  own  intensity. 

Tony  was  studying  the  last  letter.  "  Yours,  John," 
he  said  quickly  at  length,  looking  up  with  an  inscrut- 
able curl  in  his  twisted  lip,  and  shying  it  over  Gail's 
shoulder.  "  And  the'  ain't  no  stamp  on  it,"  he  added. 
"  It  couldn't  have  come  far.  Hardly  more  than  across 
the  river,  I  should  think." 

Turning,  Gail  saw  Hartline  catch  it.  Instantly  a 
few  faces  were  raised  toward  him,  and  Gail,  with  that 
suspicion  of  trickery  and  an  impending  crisis  which 
each  moment  since  their  arrival  had  been  nourishing, 
thought  that  he  discerned  uneasiness  in  their  looks. 
But  Hartline  —  impossible !  And  immediately  a  trem- 
ulous softness  in  John's  deep  voice,  new  to  Gail,  reas- 
sured him. 

"  It  came  from  Torlina,"  admitted  John,  gravely, 
clapping  the  note  unopened  into  his  pocket;  and  his 
frankness  appeared  generally  satisfying,  which  Gail 
took  as  proof  of  unquestioning  loyalty  in  all  hands. 

"None  for  you.  Thain,  isn't  it?"  said  Tony. 
"  And  you'd  ought  to  thank  your  stars  for  that,"  he 
added,  again  with  latent  insinuation. 

"  Gar- rub !  "  called  Mac  from  the  bean-hole,  as  he 
lifted  the  cover  from  the  dutch-oven  in  a  cloud  of  steam. 
And  yet,  hungry  as  all  hands  were,  they  gathered  there 
slowly,  filling  their  enamel  plates  and  cups,  eyes  still 
askance  upon  their  written  pages. 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Starting  after  them,  Gail  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder ; 
John's  big,  hairy  hand  detained  him. 

"  Give  me  a  word  here,  will  you  ?  "  he  ordered ;  and 
Gail,  with  a  fugitive  tingling  throughout  his  frame  — 
a  grim  intuition  of  gathering  forces  about  to  challenge 
all  his  new  courage  and  vows  of  service  —  followed 
Hartline  down  the  slippery  grass  over  the  lip  of  the 
bluff,  until  it  hid  camp,  and  the  elusive  roar  of  the  river 
enveloped  them. 

"  You  noticed  how  the  boys'  spirits  has  wilted 
lately  ?  "  John  asked  in  his  low  mumble,  as  they  stopped 
under  a  glimmering  white  birch.  "  Well,  these  letters'll 
jolt  them.  Give  'em  an  hour  or  two.  Such  news  as 
comes  from  home  this  time'll  temper  their  mettle.  Have 
you  watched  them  a-reading,  so  quiet,  without  an  oath 
nor  the  shiver  of  an  eyelid?  They'll  be  a  different 
crowd  when  they  get  done  chewing  all  over  to  themselves. 
They're  young,  and  men.  Glacier  bears  at  bay'll 
be  squirrels  to  the  timidest."  He  paused,  peering 
toward  a  clump  of  aspens  just  below.  "  I  seen  stains, 
that  was  wet  when  posted,  on  some  of  them  letters. 
.  .  .  You  get  a  look  at  that  picture  of  Dad's?  At  the 
suff  erin'  and*  confidence  in  his  old  woman's  eyes  ?  Well, 
not  one  of  the  rest  but  has  the  like  flashing  in  his  heart, 
scrouging  into  his  lights  —  a  moving  picture  of  home. 
And  you  can  gamble  that  some  of  them  ain't  as  cheer- 
ing as  old  Mease's."  There  was  a  catch  in  his  voice. 

"  Hark!  What's  that  noise  yonder?  "  he  asked  sud- 
denly, starting,  darting  a  look  toward  the  grove  of 
popple. 

Gail,  a-quiver  with  excitement,  craned  his  neck 
thither,  but  heard  no  sound.  "  There's  nothing  there," 
he  said,  trying  to  speak  evenly. 

For  the  silence  of  a  moment,  they  raised  their  eyes 


NEWS    FROM    HOME 

across  the  river.  Its  wide  tangle  of  channels  was  vis- 
ible in  faint  silver  threads,  through  the  earth-mist  far 
below.  The  dim  flat  of  Torlina  was  vaguely  discern- 
ible, in  the  great  elbow  where  the  western  scarps  sank 
back  against  the  mountains.  Gail's  eyes  filmed  over; 
his  bosom  swelled.  Was  that  a  light?  He  caught; 
the  weird  wolfish  howl  of  a  husky-dog  found  thiev- 
ing, and  beaten  by  one  of  Nacosta's  tribe.  Then  John 
said  in  a  quiet,  gentler  voice: 

"  I  told  you  we'd  ought  to  watch  Guiteau.  Well, 
he's  at  the  end  of  his  tether  now.  I  didn't  guess,  until 
we  got  to  the  clay-bank,  that  it  was  his  trick  to  shunt 
us  from  the  trail  by  piling  that  birch  heap.  .  .  .  He 
sold  us  out  to  Blackwood  —  which  means  Lamar  — 
sledding  with  the  Marshal  last  winter.  The's  no  use 
putting  it  up  to  him  yet.  He'd  just  deny  it,  say  it  was 
a  mistake.  But  every  cartridge  he  cached  here  is  a 
.38,  and  we  ain't  got  a  gun  under  a  .44." 

Gail  clutched  his  fists,  forced  back  an  angry  gag- 
ging in  his  throat.  John  Hartline  bit  his  plug  of 
tobacco  furiously. 

"  We  got  nothing,"  he  added,  "  but  the  score  of  shells 
in  Luke's  belt,  and  the  automatic,  to  hold  against 
Lamar.  And  he  must  know  that  by  now.  And  Luke's 
ca'tridges  don't  fit  nothing  but  Tony's  carbine." 

n 

John's  words  rose  and  fell  in  a  telling  rhythm.  In 
the  indistinct  light,  his  bronzed  features  stood  out  with 
a  hammered,  metallic  look. 

"  Things  is  at  a  head  that  may  mean  anything, 
any  minute,"  he  boomed  out  suddenly.  "  Avery  — 
that  stuffed  old  lunatic  —  don't  know  whether  Black- 
wood's  got  the  decision  or  not.  But  he's  at  Torlina. 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Bluff  is  all  we  got  to  play,  after  settling  with  Gui- 
teau." 

There  was  a  strained  silence,  in  which  Gail  thought 
that  he  heard  the  grind  of  John's  teeth. 

"  But  I  wanted  to  make  a  proposition  to  you,"  Hart- 
line  went  on  finally.  "  I  took  chances  on  you  from  the 
beginning.  But  you've  made  good  with  us,  more  than 
good.  I've  been  watching  you  and  talking  with  the 
outfit.  They're  all  for  you,  even  Dad.  Will  you  pitch 
in  with  us  on  a  fair  footing,  stand  by  and  help  us  in 
our  fight?" 

Gail  could  not  believe  his  ears.  He  felt  an  angry 
wave  of  humiliation  that  John  had  not  assumed  that  he 
was  going  to  cast  his  lot  with  the  outfit's. 

"  If  you're  agreeable,  I  offer  you  an  interest  in  my 
own  stake  —  in  half  all  my  property  in  Alaska,"  he 
kept  on.  "  But  you  must  choose  with  eyes  open,  know- 
ing how  near  to  ruin  we  may  all  be." 

Gail's  finger-tips  dug  into  his  palms.  An  undercur- 
rent of  entreaty  in  John's  voice  enraged  him.  He 
could  contain  his  feelings  no  longer. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you,  John,"  he  be- 
gan quietly,  gripping  himself.  "  You  talk  to  me  like 
that,  think  I'm  for  hire?  You  want  to  make  me  hit 
you,"  he  said  hoarsely,  with  scorn  for  John's  seeming 
deep  simplicity.  "  Don't  you  know  me  yet  better  than 
to  think  I'd  take  a  bribe  —  a  bribe  to  do  the  only  thing 
that  makes  life  worth  living  for  me  now?  I  feel  a 
coward  to  think  that  you  hadn't  taken  for  granted  by 
this  time  I'd  fight  Lamar  with  you,"  he  ripped  out 
fiercely.  "  Why,  you  men  are  a  providence  to  me. 
Oh,  I'd  like  to  tell  you  things ! "  His  voice  shook. 

All  his  lessons  with  Bob  filled  Gail's  brain  to  burst- 
ing, rushed  to  his  lips,  in  pledges  of  fellowship  and  sym- 


NEWS    FROM   HOME 

pathy.  But  as  once  with  Tom,  and  with  the  same  in- 
stinctive reticence  that  he  should  not  be  understood, 
he  checked  a  confession.  And  John  appeared  stolid, 
unmoved  by  what  he  had  said.  Then  it  dawned  through 
Gail,  explaining  what  he  had  thought  was  John's  sordid- 
ness,  that  the  man's  stake  in  Alaska  was  on  a  par  with 
life  itself  to  him.  Leaning  forward,  he  caught  a  fiery 
gleam  in  John's  grey  eyes.  He  remembered,  with  re- 
newed misgiving,  the  unstamped  letter  from  Torlina, 
and  Tom's  charge  that  John  held  off  from  striking 
at  Lamar. 

"  Without  arms  we  can't  move  on  him  in  a  body,  if 
call  came  for  that,"  growled  John.  "  We've  got  no 
leader  in  case  of  having  to  do  business  with  Lamar 
direct." 

"  Why  not?  "  blurted  Gail,  but  shrewdly,  in  grim 
astonishment  that  guile  might  underlie  his  power  and 
reserve.  "What's  the  matter  with  yourself?" 

For  a  moment  John  dropped  his  head,  his  shoulders 
trembled,  and  his  breath  came  hard.  "  I  can't  meet 
Lamar,  go  into  his  camp  myself,"  he  confessed  in  a 
strained,  hopeless  tone.  "  And  I  can't  tell  you  nor 
anyone  the  reason,"  he  broke  off.  "  The  boys  'ud 
never  understand." 

"  You  mean,"  asked  Gail  boldly,  "  that  it's  got  to  do 
with  that  letter  from  Torlina  to  night?  " 

In  the  silence,  Gail  thought  with  desperation,  "  Is 
no  one  to  be  trusted? "  Then  John  jerked  up  his 
head.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  almost  inaudibly.  "  And  don't 
you  ask  me  any  more.  You  got  to  take  the  chance  on  me 
I  took  on  you.  Let  the  rest  suspect  what  they're 
a-mind  to,  but  you  got  to  trust  me,  Gail." 

Roughly,  he  thrust  out  his  hand.  And  Gail,  over- 
come by  the  force  of  his  honesty,  seized  it.  He  saw 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

that  suspicion  between  them  was  impossible,  else  the 
whole  issue  against  Lamar  was  ridiculous.  And  the 
tightening  of  John's  corded  hand  upon  his  own  effaced 
all  his  doubts  for  good. 

"  What's  the  matter,  then,  for  the  big  man  you've 
been  talking  to  seeing  Lamar?  "  harked  back  Gail,  re- 
lieved, still  restraining  himself. 

"Hank  Ireson?"  asked  John.  "I  thought  of  him, 
and  he  wants  to  scout  across  there.  But  his  temper 
riles  too  quick.  And  he's  too  much  of  a  '  show-me ' 
man.  He'd  stampede  himself,  and  likely  founder  us." 

"  Let  me  go  then ! "  exclaimed  Gail,  with  a  sudden 
vehemence.  He  felt  a  thundering  in  his  ears.  "  La- 
mar  don't  know  me,  so  — " 

He  was  cut  off  by  the  clinch  of  John's  hand  upon  his 
arm.  Gail  switched  about,  facing  the  clump  of  aspens. 

"  Listen !  I  told  you  someone  was  hid  there,"  John 
whispered. 

They  held  breath.  Two  muffled  voices  could  be  heard. 
Then  one  of  them  rose  in  sudden  anger.  There  was  a 
crackle  of  twigs,  and  a  figure  burst  from  the  grove, 
muttering  fiercely  to  itself,  and  scurried  up  the  slope 
towards  camp. 

"Tom!"  they  uttered  together.  His  long,  light 
boots,  the  lithe,  sliding  run,  were  unmistakable.  "  And 
the's  another  in  there." 

Their  eyes  met.  With  an  oath,  John  started  run- 
ning after  Guiteau.  But  Gail  seized  him  by  a  shoulder, 
drawing  him  back. 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  impulsively,  "  do  all  the  boys 
know  about  him  and  the  cartridges?  " 

"  Know  ?  "  echoed  John.  "  Ireson  found  it  out  the 
day  the  first  crowd  got  here.  Ain't  you  seen  everyone 


NEWS    FROM    HOME 

leave  Tom  alone  tonight?  They  only  can't  nerve 
themselves  to  strike  a  pardner  as  yet." 

Gail,  glaring  at  the  ground,  formulated  his  chaotic 
thoughts. 

"  You've  asked  something  of  me  tonight  and  I've 
given  you  my  word,"  he  said  at  length.  "  Now  let  me 
do  the  same  with  you."  Gail  paused,  fortifying  his 
proposal  with  the  memory  of  what  Tom  had  revealed 
from  his  letter.  "  Let  me  manage  Guiteau,  will  you  ?  " 
he  demanded.  "  Prove  that  you  can  trust  me  that  far, 
too." 

John  started,  faced  him,  stroked  his  matted  beard. 
"  All  —  right,"  he  conceded.  "It'll  save  me  a  heart- 
less job.  And  I  don't  see  what  more  dirt  he  can  do 
us,  if  we  hold  him  here  in  camp."  Then  he  nodded 
toward  the  aspens.  "  But  who  was  he  talking  with 
down  there?  " 

"  Jonesy,  I  believe,"  said  Gail,  engrossed.  "  Jonesy 
raising  hell  with  Tom  like  he  has  been  with  that  census- 
man." 

"  What's  your  lay-out  for  Tom  ?  "  asked  John,  satis- 
fied, starting  to  mount  the  slope. 

"Making  him  confess  to  the  crowd,"  Gail  declared, 
through  set  teeth.  "  Let  the  man  have  open  judgment. 
Maybe  he  ain't  the  blackguard  now  that  he  was  six 
months  back." 

m 

The  camp  loomed,  silent,  over  the  rise.  Against 
every  tent  wall  glowed  the  little  moon  of  a  candle,  by 
each  of  which  a  head  propped  on  an  arm  weighed  the 
news  from  home.  To  the  right,  the  snores  of  the 
grandiloquent  Avery  issued  from  the  whitish  hump  of 


THE    YOUNGEST  WORLD 

his  tarpaulin  wrapped  around  him.  But  dead  ahead, 
alone  on  the  grub-box  by  the  dying  campfire,  Tom  sat 
with  his  head  craned  forward  between  his  hands. 

Gail  lifted  a  piece  of  dead  brush  from  the  grass 
and  threw  it  on  the  embers.  It  illuminated  Tom's  rigid 
features,  drawn  in  their  hardest  animality;  but  they 
remained  immobile. 

Instantly  John  gave  three  short,  low  whistles. 
Scarcely  had  these  left  his  lips,  when  Gail  wheeled  about 
on  him. 

"  Hold  on !  "  he  muttered.     "  Not  yet " 

"  Now's  the  time,"  scowled  John,  "  for  Guiteau  to 
unbosom.  Or  he'll  be  getting  away  in  Avery's 
boat." 

Gail,  curbing  his  resentment,  did  not  reply.  He 
grasped  that  regardless  of  any  compact  with  John, 
this  dominant  man  held,  and  would  hold,  all  course  of 
action  in  his  own  hands. 

At  once  the  moons  began  to  move  behind  their  can- 
vas. The  tents  became  all  astir.  Dishevelled,  still 
booted  figures,  some  sleepily,  others  staring  with  wake- 
fulness,  emerged  like  bees  from  a  prodded  hive,  in  a 
hum  of  apprehension  and  alarm;  and  Gail  saw  that 
many  of  them  clutched  white  pages  in  their  hands. 

"  Thain  here  is  with  us,  one  of  us  now,"  John's 
quiet,  penetrating  voice  silenced  them.  "  You're  to 
take  his  orders  the  same  as  mine.  And  he's  got  a  word 
to  say  to  one  of  us,  before  all  of  you." 

The  murmurs  quieted,  then  rose  approvingly,  as 
Gail,  steeling  himself,  heard  his  name  called  and  felt 
all  eyes  centring  upon  him.  Then  they  deflected  to- 
ward Tom,  still  sitting  motionless  and  head-down,  as 
if  the  company  perceived  a  hidden  tie  between  them. 

Hank  Ireson's  big,  stooping  form  pushed  itself  for- 


NEWS    FROM    HOME 

ward  into  the  firelight.  He  raised  an  arm,  flung  a  thing 
into  the  ashes  —  a  paper  which  broke  into  flame. 

"  John  as  good  as  says  we're  at  our  show-down," 
he  exclaimed.  "  Then  let's  give  some  bond  of  how  we 
feel  and  are  a-willing  to  act.  .  .  .  Fire  your  letters, 
boys,  all  of  you ! "  he  cried.  "  Show  the  answers  we 
give  to  them  this  time  ain't  going  to  be  written  with  pen 
and  ink.  That  we're  the  men  to  burn  our  bridges  be- 
hind us,  and  write  home  no  more  half-lies,  until  we  can 
cut  our  trail  there.  If  not  at  the  .muzzles  of  our  guns 
— "  he  looked  at  Tom,  "  then  in  any  way  God  or  this 
land  of  ours  affords  us." 

He  kindled  a  cheer,  which  it  seemed  must  have  reached 
across  the  river.  Again  Gail's  being  was  shocked  by 
those  culminating,  vindictive  forces  in  the  men  before 
him,  which  he  had  divined  and  John  had  dwelt  upon. 
Some  of  them,  who  had  left  their  letters  in  the  tents, 
sprang  after  these,  in  the  turmoil  of  voices,  of  moving 
faces,  of  arms  shot  forward  into  the  fire.  In  Gail's 
vowed  fealty  to  these  men,  he  saw  that  he  might  act 
for  them  aside  from  his  will  and  judgment,  though  in- 
stinctively for  their  ends;  and  yet,  that  however  he 
served  them,  no  sacrifice  of  his  could  ever  requite  the 
means  they  offered  for  fulfiling  the  truths  with  which 
Bob  and  the  North  had  inspired  him.  Then  a  sense 
of  unworthiness  clouded  this  access  of  partisanship. 

The  throng  surrounded  him  again,  and  there  floated 
away  from  the  sinking  flames  charred  wisps  of  paper 
on  which  the  writing  stood  out  in  skeleton,  silver  fili- 
gree. 

"  Then  mightn't  Thain,  as  our  new  leader,  say  a 
word  or  two  to  hearten  us  ?  "  It  was  Tom's  voice.  The 
outfit  held  its  breath,  turning  again  toward  the  grub- 
box.  The  youth  had  risen,  thrown  back  his  head,  and 


228       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

spoke  with  a  slow,  snarling  irony.  "  Not  being  from 
Kingdom,  Gail  here  can  look  at  our  business  with  some 
horse  sense." 

Menacing  voices  silenced  him.  Luke  guilelessly 
jumped  forward  and  seized  Gail  by  the  hand. 

Gail  heard  Tom,  dazed.  The  nerve  of  the  man! 
Found  out  and  trapped,  did  he  presume  upon  the  af- 
ternoon's compassionate  talk  to  appeal  for  an  ally? 

"  Tom ! "  ordered  Gail,  striding  forward  into  the 
ashes,  as  a  dizziness  swept  him.  "  Hear  me  now !  " 

"  This  Gail  ain't  told  us  nothing  about  himself,  nor 
his  stake  in  this  country,  outside  of  mountain-climbing," 
went  on  Guiteau,  with  calm  insinuation.  "  He  was 
ahead  with  me  when  the  trail  was  blocked,  and  the's 
others  can  tote  cartridges  and  rob  caches  beside  me 
and  Blackwood." 

Gail  felt  all  eyes  fix  upon  himself.  Having  failed 
to  tempt  him,  Tom  sought  to  accuse,  did  he?  To  in- 
volve him,  his  own  champion?  For  a  vivid  instant  Gail 
felt  helpless,  the  tables  turned  against  him,  at  least 
as  an  intercessor.  .  .  . 

"  Cut  that  and  listen  to  Thain ! "  swelled  out  John's 
stentorian  voice.  "  And  understand  you're  our  pris- 
oner." 

"Am  I?"  Tom  retorted  with  a  bold  jeer.  "But 
don't  you  want  the  two  of  us.  Not  Thain,  I  mean,  but 
this  old  friend  of  ours  I  see  a-coming  up  toward  us 
from  the  river." 

He  pointed  thither,  over  their  heads,  down  into  the 
dark  where  Gail  and  John  had  conferred.  For  the 
first  time  since  Tom  had  spoken,  the  bewildered,  spell- 
bound company  found  breath  and  voice,  as  they  caught 
sight  of  the  approaching  figure  enter  the  penumbra  of 
the  camp  fire. 


NEWS    FROM    HOME  229 

An  angry  murmur  broke  the  stillness  before  any- 
one made  out  who  the  stranger  was.  Gail's  impres- 
sion was  of  seeing  a  narrow,  thin-lipped,  sallow  face, 
accentuated  by  very  black  eye-brows  and  long  hair 
like  a  quack  doctor's,  under  a  fedora  hat;  of  in-bent 
knees  in  black  trousers,  a  sable,  drooping  moustache, 
and  sagging  cheeks  —  jowls  chastened  by  unwelcome 
exercise,  and  shaven  blue.  The  man  tossed  aside  long 
gauntlets. 

Then  he  bowed  his  head,  and  calmly,  without  a  word 
of  greeting,  began  rubbing  his  hands  together  with  a 
laving  motion  in  the  glow  of  the  embers.  Gail's  sight 
centred  on  his  fingers,  their  tips  flat  and  spatulate,  their 
nails  broken,  corrugated.  The  fellow  raised  his  face 
toward  John,  who  had  quietly  seated  himself  on  the  box 
beside  Tom,  and  Gail  saw  that  the  large,  liquid  pupils 
of  his  eyes  were  rimmed  with  a  fishy  blueness ;  and  that 
he  carried  a  belt  heavy  with  shells,  and  a  large  revolver 
in  a  raw-hide  holster. 

The  curdling  stillness  again  pervaded,  broken  only 
by  A  very 's  untroubled  snores. 

"  Hello,  Blackwood ! "  issued  from  Ireson's  square 
jaw,  where  Hank  stood  with  his  long  arms  reaching  al- 
most to  his  knees,  his  palms  held  outward. 

rv 

"  Have  some  supper  ?  "  suggested  John.  "  It  must 
'a'  been  some  play  crossing  the  Atna  in  the  dark. 
Gail,  that  was  the  Marshal  we  heard  a  while  ago." 
But  Hartline  made  no  move  from  the  grub-box. 

"  I  come  with  news  for  you  men,"  ventured  Black- 
wood  in  a  strained,  amiable  voice.  "  Vinegar  Bill  took 
me  across  on  his  raft,"  he  added  blandly. 

"You're  in  an  all-fired  rush  to  see  us,  ain't  you?" 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

spoke  up  Tony.  "  We'll  save  Vinegar  the  trouble  of 
taking  you  back,  I  guess." 

"  Ain't  you  boys  going  to  listen  and  hear  me  out  ?  " 
he  asked  with  a  quick  vigour,  staring  about  him.  Yet 
there  was  pleading  in  his  tone.  He  was  hardly  Gail's 
idea  of  an  Alaskan  politician. 

"  Open  up  then,"  said  John,  rising,  and  folding  his 
arms.  "  Give  him  his  tether,  pardners,"  dropping  his 
tone  to  a  curious  hardness. 

The  faces  craned  forward,  and  Ireson  bent  down  and 
threw  a  log  on  the  coals.  The  Marshal  raised  his  hands 
against  the  bright  crackle,  as  if  to  shield  his  face  from 
the  heat;  but  it  struck  Gail  that  thus  he  also  avoided 
the  glances  of  both  Tom  and  John,  standing  side  by 
side. 

"  The  Judge  of  the  Second  District  has  rendered  his 
decision  in  the  matter  of  the  Torlina  townsite,"  Black- 
wood  said  with  a  quavering  distinctness.  He  looked 
once,  furtively,  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  flat  across 
the  river;  then,  throwing  out  his  chest  under  its  white 
shirt,  he  continued  blatantly: 

"  You  may  as  well  know  that  it's  in  your  favour. 
His  Honour  restores  the  tract  to  you,  as  a  homestead 
location.  It's  yours  to  take  possession  of  as  soon  as 
you  sign  the  deeds.  Men,  I  congratulate  you." 

First  the  circle  of  faces  in  the  tremulous  light  had 
exchanged  a  dogged,  hopeless  impatience.  Now  they 
broke  into  whispers  of  astonishment  and  unbelief,  which 
rose  into  denying  exclamations,  sarcastic  chuckles, 
voices  that  charged  a  cold  lie.  Yet  in  the  stir  of  bodies, 
none  could  conceal  an  underlying  elation. 

"  Then  where's  the  verdict?  You  got  it  with  you?  " 
challenged  Hank.  He  sobered  all  of  them,  an  image 


NEWS    FROM    HOME  231 

of  the  impetuous,  hard-headed,  incredulous  man  that 
John  had  signified. 

"  Across  the  river,  ain't  it?  "  proffered  Tony,  bit- 
terly; and  at  Gail's  elbow,  Red  Hoffman  sneered, 
"  What's  the  price  he  gets  for  lying?  " 

For  a  moment  Blackwood  faced  these  insults  unflinch- 
ingly. Then,  jerking  both  arms  above  his  head,  he 
brought  them  down  smashingly  on  the  air,  like  a 
fanatic  street-preacher,  shouting — • 

"  I've  switched.  Boys,  I'm  with  you  in  yer  fight. 
You're  right,  by  God,  you're  right.  My  life  on  that, 
by  the  braced  wheel  of  the  Almighty ! " 

"  Stow  it ! "  bantered  McConighy ;  and  in  the  dead 
pause  some  one  hinted  that  the  Marshal  was  drunk. 
Ireson  advised  him  to  keep  on  and  hang  himself.  Yet 
his  avowals  had  plainly  told  upon  all. 

"  You  seem  to  be  packin'  enough  shootm'-irons  to 
have  us  believe  what  you're  a-mind  to,"  drawled  Tony. 
But  the  Marshal,  paying  no  heed,  continued  dramat- 
ically : 

"  You  men  think  you  know  me,  and  that  my  lay's 
always  been  bad,  do  you?  Well,  you're  wrong,  all 
wrong.  Yes;  I  owed  Lamar  a  debt,  a  political  debt. 
He  had  me  appointed.  But  that's  paid  now,  and  I'm 
done  with  the  like  of  him."  He  stopped  suddenly,  as 
if  at  a  loss ;  then  went  on  with  a  slight  gasp,  "  And 
when  I  first  come  to  this  country,  I  wanted  to  bleed  it, 
grab  my  stake,  hike  outside  and  spend  it,  blow  it  in, 
the  same  as  everyone  in  this  midge-bitten  swamp  of 
rocks  and  ice.  Ain't  we  all  on  the  frontier  got  that 
disease?"  He  flicked  out  a  white  silk  bandanna,  and 
mopped  his  brow.  ..."  But,  pardners,  it's  our  last 
free  country,  this,  we  ain't  got  no  other,  and  the  men 


THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

like  you  has  hungered  and  suffered  for  it.  A  long  time 
I've  been  a-studying  you  and  chewing  things  over  — 
the  bigger  needs  of  this  land,  for  the  future,  and  for 
justice  to  its  real,  heroic  pioneers.  And  I  had  my  mind 
set  by  last  spring,  before  this  verdict  was  turned  in,  that 
Lamar  and  his  heelers  has  got  this  country  started 
wrong,  all  wrong.  I've  come  to  love  this  cold,  rich  land, 
that  makes  men  out  of  cowards,  or  drives  them  out 
of  it." 

His  voice  vibrated,  raucously  mingling  bombast  and 
pathos.  His  honesty  puzzled  Gail;  real  contrition  and 
deceit  seemed  inextricably  mixed  in  his  outburst;  yet 
he  expressed  Gail's  and  John's  creed  for  Alaska.  Thus 
the  guffaw  that  greeted  him  abashed  Gail.  Even  Black- 
wood,  he  thought,  should  not  be  denied  fair  play,  until 
proved  a  liar.  But  if  then  — ! 

"It's  a  nice  trap,  ain't  it?"  derided  Tony.  Hank 
snorted,  "What  man  won't  quit  his  job,  after  maybe 
his  boss  has  lost  out  ?  "  But  John  raised  a  silencing 
hand. 

"  I  come  across  here,"  Blackwood  yelled,  unshamed, 
"  primed,  set,  and  hired  by  Lamar  for  a  faked  story 
to  tell  you.  I  was  to  get  you  down-river  and  away 
from  here  at  any  price,  by  saying  that  the  court  had 
sided  against  you,  that  he  had  forty  men  with  him,  all 
armed  to  their  jaw-bones,  and  it  was  suicide  for  you  to 
face  him.  But  crossing  the  river  tonight,  my  con- 
science got  the  better  of  me,  I  see  I  couldn't  sell  my 
honour  that  way  to  no  such  sharp  fiend,  to  a  dog  as  low 
as  him.  It  was  a  turning  point,  boys,  for  a  man  like 
me.  I  grit  my  teeth  and  swore  to  tell  you,  friends,  the 
truth  and  throw  him  over — "  his  voice  sank  feelingly, 
"  though  my  getting  to  be  judge  is  all  in  his  backers* 
hands." 


NEWS    FROM    HOME  233 

"  Why  didn't  you  bring  the  papers  with  you,  then  ?  " 
growled  Hank,  imperviously. 

"  Or  pack  us  back  our  .44  shells,"  demanded  Mc- 
Conighy,  "  that  you  stole  with  Tom." 

Instantly,  at  mention  of  his  name,  Guiteau,  who  had 
been  listening  rigid,  with  curling  lips,  sprang  forward 
into  the  light.  He  rammed  his  hands  carelessly  into 
his  pockets,  cocked  his  head  on  one  side;  but,  as  he 
began  to  speak,  at  first  unnoticed  by  the  outfit  —  now 
engrossed  by  larger  issues  than  his  treachery  — Gail 
saw  a  hateful  glitter  in  his  bulging  eyes. 

"  Blackwood  here  means  all  he  says  about  flopping," 
Tom  began,  easily.  "  He's  telling  you  the  truth  there. 
That's  why  I  hate  the  skunk.  I've  just  had  it  all  out 
with  him,  down  yonder  in  the  brush.  And  I'd  be  talk- 
ing like  him  now,  if  I  was  the  coward  he  is.  But  I'm 
only  a  traitor  —  a  traitor  to  my  pardners  on  the  trail. 
And  you've  found  me  out.  I  don't  need  to  allow  how 
I  give  myself  to  Blackwood  for  a  bribe  last  winter. 
You  judge  me  now,  do  with  me  as  you  see  fit,"  he  raised 
his  voice,  "  but  first  you  got  to  choose  between  the  two 
of  us." 

He  paused,  wet  his  lips,  taking  a  deep  breath.  A 
kind  of  choked  fervour  in  his  words  was  token  enough 
of  their  sincerity  for  Gail,  who  perceived  that  Tom  held 
the  outfit's  ears,  and  their  eyes  cast  down,  as  the  Mar- 
shal had  not. 

"  But  this  turn-coat  Blackwood,"  went  on  Tom 
scathingly.  "  He  ain't  even  got  the  honour  of  thieves. 
Lamar  wouldn't  stand  no  more  for  his  hold-ups,  jumped 
his  game,  so  he's  come  snivelling  to  your  side  with  heart- 
throbs about  the  good  of  Alaska.  But  mark  me,  men 
— >• "  his  tone  broke  with  feeling,  "  I've  quit  him  not 
because  I  do  repent,  or  don't,  for  how  I  sold  you.  I 


THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

loathe  the  black-leg  for  having  turned  against  them  he 
sold  himself  to.  I  hate  the  white-livered  ingrate  for 
his  double-faced  welching  in  the  game  he  started  to  play 
—  for  his  hypocrisy  to  me,  let  alone  Lamar.  If  a  man 
who  serves  the  devil  flim-flams  him,  and  comes  fawning 
up  to  shake  with  Jesus,  why  even  the  Lord  ought  to 
spit  in  his  mealy  face ! " 

His  voice  shook  with  passion.  A  tumult  of  cries  was 
hurled  vindictively  against  the  Marshal,  who  had  shrunk 
from  the  fire,  raising  his  arms  before  his  shaking  jowls. 
Gail  felt  that  tough,  underlying  loyalty  which  the 
trail  breeds  between  partners  assert  itself  toward 
Tom. 

"  Hear  him  out ! "  ordered  Gail,  unable  to  contain 
himself,  impelled  by  that  dominating  force  outside  his 
will.  "  It's  our  choice  between  this  pair.  And  I'm 
standing  by  Guiteau !  " 

"  Thain,  mebbe  you  think  I've  begun  to  play 
straightfor'ard  because  of  that  letter  I  got  tonight." 
Tom  faced  Gail,  curbing  himself.  "  But  that  ain't 
why.  It  might  be  a  reason  with  some  men,  but  not 
me.  My  heart's  too  black  a'ready.  I'm  only  acting 
according  to  my  nature,  which  a  minute  back  set  me 
against  you,  too.  It  mayn't  be  in  me  to  stick  by  my 
pardners,  but  it  is  to  smash  at  them  that  breaks  with 
me."  He  turned  to  the  others.  "  And  whether  this'll 
land  me  back  with  you  or  not,  is  for  you  boys  to  settle 
amongst  you." 

"  I'd  as  soon  believe  the  devil  as  either  of  them," 
swore  Hank. 

"  Men !  "  boomed  Hartline  huskily.  "  Thain  has  put 
it  straight  for  you  about  this  pair." 

There  was  a  splitting  stillness;  then  a  defiant  hum, 
which  concentrated  upon  Blackwood. 


NEWS    FROM    HOME 

He  tried  to  cower  back  into  the  shadows,  but  a  dozen 
hands  thrust  him  forward.  His  fedora  hat  fell  off  into 
the  fire. 

"  That  man  Thain  —  there.  I  arrest  him  in  the 
name  of  the  law,"  Blackwood  cried,  beside  himself.  "  I 
got  it  from  Guiteau  how  you  murdered  John  T.  Snow- 
den's  son  on  Mt.  Lincoln  for  his  money,  and  fooled 
these  men  with  your  lies.  That  mountain-climber's 
father  runs  Lamar's  steamers  for  him.  They're  all  the 
same  gang." 

For  an  instant  Gail's  heart  boiled,  at  the  man's 
stratagem,  illogical  as  it  was,  to  bolster  his  discredited 
contrition,  to  attack  the  partisan  of  Tom's  that  Gail 
had  shown  himself  to  be.  But  immediately  Gail  saw 
that  this  move  only  sealed  the  general  decision  against 
the  Marshal  and  for  Guiteau,  and  rallied  the  outfit  to 
himself  and  Tom.  Blackwood  made  a  break  forward. 
Hank  Ireson,  fully  angry  at  last,  sprang  at  the  man 
and  held  him  by  the  wrists. 

"  I  guess  we  want  something  like  a  murderer  with  us 
now,"  drawled  John,  "  to  deal  with  gentlemen  like 
you.  .  .  .  Gail,  what  had  Hank  better  do  with  him?" 

"  Make  him  tell  the  truth  about  the  court's  verdict," 
interjected  Tony.  "  Half-nelson  his  arms." 

"  You've  called  my  bluff  —  you  — "  panted  Black- 
wood  weakly,  his  long  hair  grotesquely  mussed.  "  But 
I'm  still  game.  I  tell  you  I  ain't  seen  that  judgment. 
I  brought  it  sealed  by  the  Court's  orders  to  leave  with 
Lamar.  But  Lamar  was  a-going  to  throw  me,  so  I  was 
taking  the  only  gamble." 

Believed  or  not,  a  roar  went  up  at  the  confession. 
Somehow  his  words  convinced  Gail,  and  despite  the 
Marshal's  attack,  his  scorn  mingled  with  pity  for  the 
coward  in  his  plight. 


236       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  We  got  to  get  those  papers  ourselves,  boys,"  Gail 
shouted. 

"  Then  grab  his  gun  and  shells,"  cried  Luke.  "  We 
need  'em  for  that." 

A  ringing  cheer  echoed  him.  And  then,  whether  its 
venom  spurred  Blackwood's  strength  into  a  superhuman 
resistance,  or  he  had  caught  Hank's  grip  relaxing  un- 
der the  impact  of  this  crisis,  the  Marshal,  with  a  des- 
perate fling  of  his  whole  body,  freed  his  arms,  dodged 
madly  through  the  throng,  across  the  open,  and  down 
the  bank  toward  the  river. 


For  the  space  of  a  second,  the  amazed  dry-farmers 
stood  rooted.  And  then  that  smouldering  fury  stirred 
by  the  news  from  home  reached  its  climax.  At  last  the 
outfit  had  found  a  target  for  the  wrath  of  their  desper- 
ate four  years.  Gail  felt  the  air  about  him  pulse  with 
the  unleashing  of  a  furious  human  frenzy,  translated 
into  swift  and  silent  action. 

"  Go  for  him,  boys ! "  roared  John.  "  He's  hiking 
back  to  Lamar !  " 

"  Git  him !     Git  him !  "  screeched  old  Daddy  Mease. 

A  dark,  surging  tide  of  figures  swept  across  the 
swale.  Gail  found  himself  in  the  van  of  them  with  Tom. 
Each  guessed  that  Blackwood,  repudiated,  vengefully 
re-seeking  Lamar,  would  strike  first  for  the  grove  of 
aspens  on  his  way  back  to  the  raft.  And  as  these 
loomed  into  sight,  he  was  scarcely  ten  yards  ahead  of 
them. 

Overtaken,  he  turned  without  a  sound,  and  Tom 
sprang  at  him.  Gail  held  off.  Whatever  he  owed  the 
Marshal,  the  first  and  heavier  debt  was  Guiteau's. 


NEWS    FROM    HOME  237 

The  rest  caught  up,  panting  with  anger,  blazing- 
eyed. 

"  Give  Blackwood  his  show ! "  called  John ;  and  all 
kept  back,  watching  the  lunges  of  shadowy  arms,  hear- 
ing the  fleshy  chug  of  fists.  Tom  held  him  off  by  the 
throat,  overpowered.  Gail  wondered  at  the  boy's  lack 
of  malice.  He  seemed  to  spare  him  as  if  he  were  some 
unclean  thing,  as  he  tugged  at  Blackwood's  belt  of 
shells. 

"  Trust  Tom.  I  know  him,"  blurted  Gail  to  John. 
"  He  won't  say  so,  but  he'll  be  fighting  with  us  yet. 
That  letter  he  got  was  from  his  wife  —  good  news  — 
though  as  he  says,  not  that,  but  his  hard  nature's  swing- 
ing him." 

John  nodded  sombrely,  benignly;  and  it  flashed 
through  Gail  how  mixed  were  men's  motives,  how  quix- 
otic their  acts.  For  instance:  it  was  not  chiefly  the 
Marshal's  accusation  of  murder  that  enraged  Gail 
against  him;  but  rather  his  hypocrisy,  as  agent  of  the 
land's  despoiler. 

And  he,  Gail,  had  succoured  Tom,  as  Bob  would  have 
done,  and  scored  a  victory. 

Suddenly  he  saw  Guiteau  standing  alone  at  the 
edge  of  the  grove,  holding  Blackwood's  revolver  and 
holster  at  arm's  length,  with  the  cartridges  and  belt 
dangling  from  them.  The  Marshal  had  vanished. 

But  it  scarcely  amazed  Gail  that  he  himself  was  the 
first  of  the  on-lookers  to  spring  forward,  grab  the  gun 
from  Tom,  and  dash  on,  downward  after  the  fugitive, 
into  the  blind  darkness  of  the  surrounding  spruces. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  CANVAS  HOUSE 


FREE!  ....  In  the  over-mastering  purpose  which  all 
the  evening  had  been  formulating  to  him.  Across  the 
deep,  chaotic  blackness  of  the  Atna,  was  Clara.  .  .  . 
Clara!  And  for  the  third  time,  since  in  that  Cascade 
cabin  he  had  awakened  to  new  life,  Gail  was  quitting  a 
drama  at  its  height,  also  under  an  irresistible  spur  to 
grapple  with  its  larger,  underlying  issues,  and  now  ac- 
cording to  the  visions  that  he  had  suffered  on  the 
mountain. 

The  dense  spruces,  their  short,  nether  branches  dead 
and  hanging  with  filmy  moss  from  the  river  dampness, 
seemed  to  glide  apart,  hastening  his  downward  plunge ; 
to  close  in  impenetrably  behind.  But  it  was  not  until 
he  emerged  into  the  clear  starlight  of  an  open,  and 
found  himself  sliding  across  the  short,  withered  grass, 
that  he  discerned  the  faint  trail  which  he  was  following 
—  the  track  surely  leading  to  the  ford  across  the  Atna. 

The  shouts  that  had  broken  out  behind  him  were  al- 
ready growing  fainter.  They  sounded  very  high  above, 
as  he  re-entered  the  muffling  timber.  The  boys  were 
swerving  up-river,  which  assured  Gail  that  either  they 
had  missed  Blackwood's  sole  avenue  of  escape,  or  that 
the  Marshal  had  dodged  from  the  trail  to  hide.  Paus- 
ing, he  conceded  the  latter  chance  without  solicitude. 
He  buckled  the  gun  and  cartridges  about  his  waist.  He 
had  not  sprung  forward  and  seized  them  under  any 


THE    CANVAS    HOUSE 

personal,  vindictive  impulse  against  Blackwood.  The 
deceitful  Marshal  was  but  a  minor  issue.  Gail  saw  far 
beyond  him  as  the  dry-farmers'  nemesis;  he  had  even 
pitied  the  man.  And  he  was  armed  now,  with  the  way 
open  to  Avery's  boat. 

The  slope  leveled  suddenly,  the  forest  ended,  as  if 
cleaved  off  by  a  landslip.  Gail's  boots  grated  upon 
rock,  and  he  shrank  back,  in  a  gust  of  water-chill  air, 
from  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  Staring  about,  he  saw 
that  he  had  lost  the  trail.  So,  both  to  get  bearings 
and  to  gather  his  wits,  he  crept  forward,  and  with  an 
odd,  hair-raising  dizziness  thrust  his  head  from  the  edge 
which  he  had  all  but  pitched  over. 

It  appeared  to  under-cut  him,  slanting  for  sheer  hun- 
dreds of  feet  into  the  boiling  Atna,  at  first  invisible 
where  its  flood  swung  against  the  cliffs.  Then  a  low, 
cavernous  thunder  reached  his  ears,  and  he  felt  an  hyp- 
notic thrill  in  the  pulse  of  those  distant,  solemn  eddies. 
As  his  eyes  grew  used,  all  the  river's  vast  complication 
of  sand-bars,  channels,  slues,  wooded  islands  and  sheets 
of  mist  dawned  upon  them,  like  a  bird's-eye  map:  the 
shuddering  foam  where  a  muddy  tide  combed  over  mid- 
stream boulders  with  the  reverberating  hum  of  surf; 
and  beyond  all,  the  disputed  expanse  of  Torlina,  a  plain 
of  dusky  fog,  bounded  by  the  pale  clay  ovals  of  the 
opposite  valley-benches.  No  dogs  howled  there  now. 
The  silence  was  desolating.  Indians  and  white  men, 
Lamar  and  Clara,  all  slept. 

Yes !  This  was  Gail's  moment.  Hartline,  himself  so 
grimly  diffident  (and  the  outfit  armed  only  with  the 
automatic  and  Tony's  carbine),  had  chosen  him  to 
cross  the  river.  He  alone  was  unknown  to  the  enemy. 
He  was  the  man  to  penetrate  Lamar's  camp,  to  learn 
the  truth  of  the  court's  decision.  He  was  indifferent 


240       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

whether  or  not  this  should  involve  violence.  His  crea- 
tive love,  his  discipleship  to  Bob  Snowden's  wisdom  of 
life,  united  to  spur  him  onward.  Yet  Blackwood 
was  the  one  menace,  if  he  reached  the  river,  and 
taking  the  census-man's  boat  or  the  Siwash's  raft,  re- 
turned to  fawn  upon  and  warn  his  master.  Gail  felt 
the  goad  of  that  hard  hand  of  circumstance  which  twice 
before,  at  like  moments,  had  impelled  him  forward ;  once 
to  defeat,  once  to  victory ;  each  time  to  despair,  which 
yet  provoked  a  deeper  triumph  in  understanding  to- 
ward mankind,  and  their  veiled  aims  of  existence. 

Rising,  Gail  heard  the  spruce  branches  behind  him 
crackle.  His  eyes  met  Jonesy's  snowy,  bullet  head. 
The  creases  of  the  man's  gaunt  but  heavy  features  stood 
out  like  scars.  He  was  breathing  hard ;  the  tension  of 
his  excitement  warned  Gail  that  his  sanity  of  the  week 
past  had  crumbled. 

"  Jonesy !  "  he  uttered.  "  Where've  you  been  all 
this  time?" 

Memory  assailed  Gail  in  an  uncanny  shiver.  There 
arose  before  him,  like  some  supernatural  portent,  the 
scene  and  circumstance  of  their  other  meeting  at  the 
edge  of  a  precipice. 

"  The  both  of  us  has  a  hunch  fer  cliffs,  ain't 
we  ?  "  Jonesy  chuckled  lightly.  "  Jump.  .  .  .  Let's  — 
over.  .  .  .  You  want  to  make  me  this  time?  Things 
for  us  has  got  to  end,  so  long  as  we  buck  Lamar. 
What's  living,  if  not  for  daughters  and  such?  But  a 
man's  long  learning  that." 

He  was  leaning  over  the  abyss  with  braced  limbs. 
Gail,  quaking  and  sickened  with  a  reasonless  flush  of 
guilt,  gripped  Jonesy  by  the  collar  of  his  ragged 
jumper  and  whipped  him  backward.  As  he  collapsed 
upon  the  carpet  of  spruce  spines,  Gail's  question  seemed 


THE    CANVAS    HOUSE 

to  dawn  through  him,  and  he  answered  dazedly,  still 
panting:  "  Be'n  down  to  the  river  for  Blackwood's 
raft,  to  turn  it  loose.  Missed  her.  And  lost  the  up 
trail."  Then,  with  a  flash  of  his  grey,  burning  eyes, 
he  began  to  laugh  heartlessly,  raspingly,  and  burst  into 
anathemas  against  Lamar,  his  stratagems  and  brutali- 
ties. 

"  You  show  me  how  you  reached  the  river,"  Gail 
ordered  roughly,  dragging  him  to  his  feet.  Yet 
Jonesy's  presence  encouraged  rather  than  oppressed 
him.  For  the  man  had  hit  upon  the  basic  tie  between 
them  in  his  first  words.  And  Tom's  .  hint  that  after- 
noon, of  Jonesy  as  a  voluntary  martyr  to  the  outfit's 
cause,  appeared  prophetic,  stirring  Gail's  protective 
sense. 

They  skirted  the  ledge,  veered  down-stream,  and  div- 
ing into  the  woods,  quickly  found  the  steep  trail  again, 
where  it  passed  from  the  spruces  into  a  hard-wood 
grove.  In  the  lead  Jonesy  sharpened  with  a  whining 
falsetto  his  oaths  against  monopoly  and  a  traitorous 
government.  He  seemed  ignorant  of  the  facts  in  the 
dry-farmers'  case,  and  his  virulence  was  quite  unreason- 
able. But  it  was  as  if  some  latent  hate  of  spoliation  in 
the  dumb  heart  of  the  land  itself,  the  force  of  justice  for 
a  fair  reward  to  its  true  pioneers  for  their  discoveries 
and  privations,  were  transmuted  to  his  mind  instinc- 
tively, directly.  They  came  out  on  top  of  an  abrupt 
clap  slope,  and  leaping  over  it,  sent  down  jumping  and 
scittering  slides  of  gravel.  For  a  while  in  their  swift 
descent,  silence  cut  off  any  hint  of  the  pebbles'  destina- 
tion. A  rising  bank  of  mist  smothered  the  starlight. 
Jonesy's  voice  steadied,  and  he  switched  to  the  "  rush  " 
days  of  '98  on  Valdez  Glacier,  where  men  froze  to  death 
in  the  howling  scud  while  eating  soup  squares  and  canned 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

tomatoes  on  their  sleds;  to  his  friend  Mrs.  Batty,  who 
kept  her  phonograph  playing  "  The  Banks  of  the 
Wabash  "  up  there,  to  warn  you  from  crevasses  which 
already  held  a  hundred  bodies  — "  Like  flies  in  amber." 
And  he  began  to  sing  shrilly: 

"  Oh,  the  wind  is  clear  and  cool  along  the  Atna, 
In  the  distance  lie  the  glaciers  still  with  snow.  .  .  ." 

All  at  once,  above  the  now  accustomed  roar  of  the 
river,  they  heard  the  pock  I  pock  I  of  their  tiny  avalan- 
ches striking  water.  They  met  a  layer  of  icy  air, 
heavy  with  the  limey  smell  of  dried  glacier  silt.  They 
slid,  blindly.  And  when  they  had  regained  their  feet, 
were  standing  on  a  strip  of  the  hard  shore  rubble,  be- 
side the  suck  and  wallop  of  the  great  current. 

The  cries  on  the  heights  had  died  away.  The  shock 
of  their  fall  had  stopped  Jonesy's  lips.  He  gripped 
Gail  by  an  arm,  and  with  a  throaty  exclamation  pointed 
out  into  the  fog.  Vaguely  they  discerned  in  an  eddy 
up-stream  the  outline  of  a  log,  which  as  they  sprang 
toward  it,  casually  extended  into  a  raft,  bobbing  in  the 
back-wash;  and  mute  and  stolid  on  a  boulder  near  it, 
unmoved  by  their  thudding  descent,  sat  a  figure  dressed 
in  weathered  buckskin.  Gail  might  have  mistaken  it 
for  an  image  of  himself,  except  for  the  low  forehead 
and  wide-apart  eyes  of  the  man's  dark  and  oval  face, 
the  thongs  which  bound  his  legs  under  the  knees,  and 
the  row  of  brass  clock-wheels  sewed  across  the  crown 
of  his  felt  hat. 

"  Vinegar  Bill  —  hey  ?  "  demanded  Gail,  recalling 
Blackwood's  mention  of  the  owner  of  the  raft.  And 
the  Siwash  rose  with  a  shy  twist  of  his  shoulders,  and 
a  guttural  response,  like  a  titter,  from  his  throat. 
"  We'll  cast  her  off.  Before  he's  wise,"  Gail  breathed 


THE    CANVAS    HOUSE  243 

to  Jonesy,  whipping  out  the  knife  which  he  had  last 
used  on  the  top  of  Lincoln. 

But  as  Gail  bent  over  the  rock  to  which  the  logs 
were  tied,  two  coincident  acts  kept  him  from  cutting 
the  rope.  The  Indian,  scenting  his  purpose,  jerked  it 
into  the  air  from  the  stone  with  a  lithe  twist  of  the 
end  which  he  held  in  his  hand ;  and  at  the  same  instant 
a  torrent  of  gravel  from  the  slope  above  volleyed  upon 
the  three  men.  They  caught  sight  of  a  blur  shooting 
down  through  the  fog.  The  next  moment,  the  long 
inky  locks  of  the  bare-headed  Marshal  lifted  under  their 
noses,  as  he  scrambled  upon  his  knock-kneed,  black- 
trousered  legs. 

"  Shoot  —  shoot !  "  bawled  Jonesy.  Gail's  hand  flew 
involuntarily  to  his  belt,  but  the  hunted,  gasping  des- 
peration of  Blackwood  checked  him. 

"  He  ain't  armed.  It  'ud  be  murder,"  mumbled  Gail, 
catching  sight  through  the  mist  of  the  man's  sallow, 
jowled  features,  livid  with  terror  and  surprise.  "  Back 
there ! "  he  cried  to  Jonesy,  who  had  made  a  lunge  at 
the  Marshal.  And  Jonesy  pliably  yielded,  but  curs- 
ing; meanwhile  Vinegar  Bill,  conceiving  the  encounter 
to  be  some  peculiar  whiteman's  devilishness,  stood 
rooted,  grinning,  yet  considering  flight. 

"  Let  me  onto  my  raft,"  croaked  Blackwood,  with  a 
weak  truculence.  He  raised  his  twisted  hands,  palms 
outward,  with  a  menacing  gesture  which  struck  Gail  as 
grotesque,  feminine  somehow;  and  threw  his  loose- 
jointed  frame  against  him. 

"  You  get  up  the  bank  there !  Back  to  your  dupes !  " 
Gail  heaved  him  off,  scornfully,  steeling  his  self-control 
not  to  strike  the  pitiable,  trembling  guardian  of  the  law, 
so  shorn  of  his  authority  and  his  pretence  alike,  "  Let 
them  settle  with  you !  " 


244       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

"  My  blankets.  They're  on  the  raft,"  he  pleaded, 
withdrawing.  "  Vinegar,  Oh !  Vinegar  Bill,  git  them 
for  me.  Then  I'll  go  back,  you  — "  A  febrile  anger 
choked  his  words. 

The  amazed  Vinegar  dropped  the  rope,  yet  placidly 
stepped  out  upon  his  craft,  and  began  tugging  at  the 
bundle  wrapped  in  a  yellow  slicker  that  was  lashed  to 
the  out-board  logs.  He  fumbled  at  it  for  a  full  minute, 
during  which  Gail  and  Jonesy  watched  him  in  a  tole- 
rant, uneasy  silence,  their  backs  turned  to  the  Marshal, 
who  shrank  downstream  into  the  haze.  The  Indian 
seemed  unable  to  free  the  thing.  At  last  with  a 
plaintive  whoop  he  sprang  up  from  his  task,  and  Gail 
saw  that  the  unsecured  logs,  caught  in  the  current,  were 
beginning  to  glide  down  with  it.  Again  Vinegar 
shouted,  grabbing  one  of  the  two  hewn  paddles  on  the 
raft,  as  Gail  and  Jonesy  started  running  along  the 
shore  after  it.  Suddenly  in  front  of  them  they  heard 
the  clicking  thump  of  nailed  boots,  and  Blackwood's 
figure  loomed  ahead,  racing  across  their  course,  toward 
the  river  below  the  point  where  the  raft  was  passing. 
They  gave  an  angry,  baffled  cry  and  redoubled  their 
pace;  but  the  Marshal  had  plunged  into  the  current, 
and  when  they  caught  up  abreast  of  him,  he  was  draw- 
ing himself  up  dripping  upon  the  logs,  as  Vinegar  Bill, 
strongly  plying  his  paddle  upstream,  edged  the  craft 
straight  out  into  the  river. 

With  a  yell,  Jonesy  started  to  dash  into  the  current 
after  it,  but  Gail  dragged  him  violently  back. 

"  Quick  —  you  fool  —  find  Avery's  boat !  "  he  mut- 
tered between  his  teeth.  "  If  we  cross  on  their  raft, 
we  can't  keep  them  from  landing,  unless  we  all  four 
drown."  His  voice  was  hard  and  sinister;  his  malice 


THE    CANVAS    HOUSE  245 

was  aroused  at  last.  "  Come  on !  "  he  started  groping 
on  the  run  downstream. 

But  this  time  Jonesy  did  not  obey.  All  the  pent 
and  smouldering  bitterness  of  his  poor  life  fed  his  mad, 
awakened  rage  at  Blackwood's  escape.  That  culmina- 
tion which  Tom  and  Gail  had  divined,  which  he  himself 
had  alternately  fought  and  yielded  to,  now  overpowered 
him.  With  an  hysterical  half-laugh,  half-shout,  "  I 
—  I'll  bitch  him,  bitch  him !  " —  he  threw  himself  into 
the  river  after  the  raft.  Gail,  halting  below,  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  distorted  face,  more  like  a 
death's-head  than  ever.  He  stood  impotent,  stock-still, 
his  bosom  a-flame,  a  melting  fever  in  the  back  of  his 
eyes,  which  for  the  moment  blotted  all  his  exalted  de- 
signs. For  excruciating  moments,  tortured  by  the 
undertone  of  the  river,  he  failed  to  see  Jonesy  rise  to 
the  surface.  He  knew  —  why  the  man  kept  under. 
Perhaps  that  knowledge,  perhaps  his  own  mastering 
instinct  for  self-perpetuation,  convinced  him  that  it  was 
fatuous  to  risk  a  rescue.  Out  at  the  edge  of  the  fog  a 
wave-crest  flopped  over  with  a  whitish  tremor,  and  Gail 
felt  his  flesh  creep. 

Uncontrolledly  he  shouted,  again,  and  again.  Out- 
ward he  strained  his  ears  and  eyes,  all  his  raw  and  out- 
raged senses,  into  the  hum  and  darkness  of  the  flood. 
Not  a  sound.  The  useless,  pathetic,  inevitable  sacri- 
fice! The  thought  of  it  had  been  heroic;  how  blight- 
ing was  the  truth! 

Gail  turned  and  ran,  unseeing,  down  the  river,  with 
a  morbid  feeling  that  he  was  following  the  body,  until 
he  stumbled  over  a  sharp-cornered  boulder.  Picking 
himself  up,  he  saw  that  a  rope  passed  under  it.  A 
square,  coffin-shaped  hulk,  built  of  thick,  whip-sawed 


246       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

boards,   its   seams  black  and  dripping  with  hardened 
pitch,  was  hauled  in  there  upon  the  gravel. 

ii 

Sight  of  the  census-man's  boat,  and  the  thought  that 
Blackwood  might  now  be  half  way  over  to  Torlina, 
vividly  returned  Gail  to  his  purposes.  He  could  easily 
overtake  the  raft.  He  threw  the  bow-line  into  the  scow, 
shoved  her  off,  and  jumped  in,  under  the  first  impulse 
which  he  had  felt  of  vengeance  against  the  Marshal. 

He  dropped  the  heavy  sweeps  between  their  thole- 
pins. The  current  pressed  the  bow  outward,  and  he 
bent  harder  to  his  right-hand  oar,  thus  to  edge  across, 
head  on.  Instantly  he  had  vanished  into  the  shoreless 
fog.  The  chop  kept  along  with  him,  heaving,  crazily 
rocking  the  scow ;  he  seemed  to  be  motionless,  yet 
strongly  as  he  rowed  he  knew  that  he  was  shooting  down- 
stream —  ever  farther  out,  ever  closer  to  the  humped 
white  water  that  broke  with  a  deadly,  solemn  pulse  over 
the  mid-channel  reefs.  All  around,  with  a  sound  like 
frying  meat,  sizzled  up  bubbles  of  air  churned  under  by 
the  waters.  Gail  felt  the  strange,  invisible  land  slip- 
ping, whirling  up-river  past  him;  visions  of  the  un- 
known Torlina  shore  flashed  through  him,  of  smashing 
against  the  unscalable  cliffs  of  canyons  in  the  heart 
of  the  coast  alps.  Waves  spurted  up  like  tiny  geysers, 
splashing  him.  Dark  hummocks  breasted  past,  with 
sudden,  elusive  gulpings;  one  or  two  shouldered  fringes 
of  convexed  foam;  a  dizziness  invaded  his  head,  as  if 
his  body  had  been  spinning  in  a  circle.  Breathless,  he 
was  dragging  out  his  belly  from  those  thole-pins,  to 
the  maddening  creak  of  the  ill-balanced  sweeps.  He 
could  see  only  the  splintery,  weathered  stern  seat,  the 
sandy,  sloshing  bilge  water  under  it.  ...  It  was  hope- 


THE    CANVAS    HOUSE  «4»7 

less  to  meet  Blackwood  in  mid-river.  But  he  might 
catch  him  after  landing,  and  settle.  .  .  . 

Soon,  on  his  right,  a  flattish  shadow  to  which  he  had 
long  been  casting  furtive  glances,  took  on  a  harder 
immanence.  He  knew  that  it  was  not  a  rock,  because, 
instead  of  rushing  backward  from  him,  it  was  slowly 
dropping  downstream.  He  made  out  two  blurs  upon 
it  —  the  raft !  —  human  figures  on  their  knees,  their 
arms  furiously  thrusting  paddles.  Gail's  heart  leaped. 
He  ceased  his  rowing  to  drop  down  upon  them,  as  both 
entered  a  denser  streak  of  fog.  It  veiled  the  raft  be- 
fore they  sighted  him,  but  he  could  still  discern  them, 
dim  manikins  frenziedly  at  work.  The  next  instant  he 
had  crashed  against  their  logs. 

But  the  first  blow  was  struck  from  them,  binding  the 
two  crafts  together.  Before  Gail  could  unship  either 
heavy  sweep,  the  Indian,  coached  by  the  Marshal, 
thumped  his  raised  paddle  on  the  gunwale,  and  dodged 
back.  Blackwood's  initial  thrust  met  the  thick  handle 
of  Gail's  port  oar. 

Unequal  as  the  silent,  perilous  contest  was ;  and 
though  envenomed  by  Jonesy's  suicide,  the  thought  of 
drawing  his  gun  struck  Gail  as  cowardly.  He  wanted 
only  to  seize  the  paddles,  then  cast  the  logs  free.  Yet 
at  once  this  conflict  of  unwieldly  wood  became  grotesque 
—  an  awkward,  stagey  thing.  Blackwood,  as  if  he 
realised  his  advantage  in  numbers,  or  feared  the  frailty 
of  his  craft,  fought  with  a  desperate  bravery  amazing 
to  Gail,  whose  sweep  had  to  bear  the  dual  onslaught. 
The  Indian  at  last  winged  Gail  a  glancing  blow  on  his 
left  temple.  Feeling  the  warm  trickle  of  blood  there, 
he  swung  his  great  blade  in  an  arc  against  Blackwood. 
It  chugged  upon  his  neck. 

"  Board  her !     Swamp  him !  "  the  Marshal  screeched 


248       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

to  Vinegar,  falling  back  with  a  cry  of  pain.  But  he 
himself  lunged  forward  again  the  more  savagely,  this 
time  flinging  his  arms  about  Gail's  neck,  while  still  hold- 
ing the  paddle  in  his  hand.  Taken  unaware,  Gail 
dropped  the  sweep,  gripped  Blackwood  about  the  waist, 
and  the  two  locked  motionless  for  a  moment.  Gail  felt 
the  breath  from  his  thin,  distorted  lips  under  their  sleek 
hair,  the  flash  of  his  blue-rimmed  eyes.  Scow  and  raft 
seemed  to  strain  apart  as  they  hung  thus,  from  the 
shove  given  the  latter  by  the  obedient  Indian,  as  he 
leaped  over  the  boat's  side,  upon  the  stern  seat. 

But  in  doing  so,  Vinegar's  weapon  fell  into  the  river ; 
he  was  disarmed.  With  a  thrill,  Gail  saw  half  his  bat- 
tle won.  He  relaxed  his  hold,  grabbed  wildly  for  the 
Marshal's  paddle.  Blackwood  dodged,  sank  to  his 
knees,  and  bracing  himself  between  the  logs,  started  in 
a  torrent  of  curses  to  drag  Gail  over  toward  him. 
Helpless,  Gail  felt  his  body  reaching  further  and  fur- 
ther upon  the  boiling  current ;  dimly  in  his  stern  he  saw 
the  Siwash  recklessly  hurling  himself  against  the  high 
sides  of  the  scow,  to  capsize  it.  The  sullen  roar  of  a 
breaker  plunging  toward  them  broke  upon  his  ears. 
The  grind  of  existence  seemed  to  slip  a  cog,  and 
Gail  thought  with  a  grim,  nauseous  despair :  "  The 
immortality  of  others!  Here's  fighting  for  it  —  with 
a  vengeance !  " 

But  it  was  then,  with  a  final  wrench,  that  Gail 
squirmed  his  right  hand  free.  He  gripped  the  paddle 
tucked  under  Blackwood's  arm.  The  Marshal  snatched 
it  back,  releasing  Gail's  left.  This  he  jerked  toward 
him,  and  smote  it,  for  the  brace  that  he  now  alone  lacked 
for  advantage,  against  his  gunwhale.  Gail  found  that 
he  could  drag  the  man  with  him;  and  Blackwood,  ex- 
hausted and  surprised,  weakened  his  hold.  Gail  did  not 


THE    CANVAS    HOUSE  249 

lose  a  second;  his  right  hand  tore  away  the  paddle, 
which  he  shot  down  into  the  river.  With  the  other,  he 
dealt  Blackwood  a  stinging  blow  in  the  eyes,  and  sliding 
from  his  embrace  as  if  he  had  been  oiled,  tumbled  back- 
ward, free,  over  the  bow  seat  of  the  scow. 

The  Marshal  collapsed,  stunned,  upon  his  logs,  the 
two  crafts  swung  apart;  and  instantly,  with  an  ob- 
literating thunder,  there  shouldered  between  them  a 
smooth  hill  of  flowing  satin.  Across  its  hanging  ruff 
of  foam,  through  its  cool  breath  of  destruction,  Gail 
exulted  as  he  saw  the  figure  of  the  helpless  Blackwood 
stagger  to  his  feet,  and  the  raft,  speeded  down  the  mill- 
race  which  the  obstruction  of  the  gaunt  rock  accel- 
erated, vanish  silently  into  the  fog,  helpless  and 
doomed. 

"  Sweep !  Ship  your  oar !  "  he  called  to  the  bewil- 
dered Vinegar,  who,  at  the  defeat  of  his  employer,  had 
limply  ceased  all  effort. 

The  Siwash  did  so,  taking  the  after  seat,  and  they 
both  began  to  pull  strongly.  But  Gail  did  not  yet 
breathe  with  relief.  They  shot  into  the  raft's  boiling 
course.  It  whipped  their  bow  uncontrolledly  about; 
and  Gail,  shouting  encouragement  between  his  teeth, 
cursed  to  himself  the  fable  of  Indian  dexterity.  They 
grazed  a  boulder;  their  stern  crashed  in  a  side-swipe 
against  another ;  but  with  the  added  power  at  the  oars, 
they  began  to  hold  their  own  against  the  current, 
threading  the  maze  of  reefs  and  booming  collars  of 
spray.  But  soon  their  tumult  weakened,  and  the  fog 
appeared  to  darken.  Ahead,  on  the  Torlina  shore,  a 
titanic  pinnacle  wavered  out  upon  their  course;  the 
mists  were  clearing;  the  scow  breasted  cleanly  along  a 
steep,  gravel  shore  surmounted  by  huge  cottonwoods, 
and  cloying  sand  pressed  up  its  bottom. 


250       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 


m 

Gail  leaped  from  the  boat,  wiping  the  trickle  of  blood 
from  his  cheek.  He  was  at  an  immense  drift-pile  of 
gnarled  roots  and  pale,  skeleton  trunks,  forty  yards 
beyond  which  the  whole  river  seethed  against  the  knife- 
edge  of  the  cliff. 

"  Almost  drown,  I  guess,"  shivered  the  spineless 
Indian,  joining  him  and  gazing  thither. 

"Who?  Marshal?"  retorted  Gail  impatiently, 
climbing  the  low  cut-bank  into  the  shadowy,  saffron 
forest. 

"  No  —  I  guess  yes,"  said  Vinegar  with  servile  incon- 
clusiveness,  and  the  slight  laugh  of  bravado  with  which 
the  Indian  always  touches  upon  tragedy. 

"  Lamar  —  how  far  his  cabin?  You  show  me,"  said 
Gail. 

But  the  Indian  did  not  at  once  answer.  At  mention 
of  the  great  man's  name,  he  dropped  back,  reticent, 
sulkingly ;  and  Gail  felt  for  the  first  time  the  fulness  of 
Lamar's  dominance,  even  over  this  savage.  He  re- 
peated his  words,  as  a  command,  but  Vinegar  only 
answered : 

"  This  island.  One  more  river.  But  can  swim.  .  .  . 
I  think  no  good  you  see  Lamar,"  he  added  sullenly. 

Gail  swore  at  the  information  and  the  opinion  alike ; 
but  he  had  learned  that  in  the  North  every  labour  ac- 
complished is  but  half  one's  allotted  task.  They  emerged 
at  the  inner  shore  of  the  island,  upon  a  sheet  of  gurg- 
ling, glossy  water,  yet  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  wide. 
Gail  plunged  into  this  side  channel,  and  the  Indian  re- 
luctantly followed.  It  was  no  more  than  waist-deep, 
and  with  chattering  teeth  they  floundered  out  through 
a  soft  quicksand  and  into  a  thicket  of  dead  willows. 


THE    CANVAS    HOUSE 

"  Lamar  very  far.  One  mile  I  think  —  no  tlail," 
Vinegar  volunteered  at  length,  taking  the  lead  through 
the  swampy  jungle. 

"  You  put  me  on  the  trail  to  his  cabin,"  Gail  ordered. 
"  And  then  you  beat  it." 

For  an  hour  or  more  they  threaded  endless  alders, 
past  stagnant  pools,  edged  by  dead,  exotic  grasses ; 
passed  over  sweetish,  aromatic  carpets  of  decaying 
balm-o'-gilead  leaves,  with  the  damp  and  ursine  tang 
of  the  high  bush  cranberry  in  their  nostrils.  Finally 
the  open  flat  gleamed  ahead,  its  dishevelled  canvas  lean- 
tos  close  at  hand,  their  poles  sagging  and  askew,  and 
beyond,  squat,  ruinous  log-cabins  that  seemed  to  be 
sinking  into  the  soil.  Gail  stumbled  over  a  half-buried 
log,  plunging  forward  upon  a  thing  alive  and  warm;  a 
dog.  It  sprang  at  him  with  a  wolfish  snarl,  and  re- 
covering his  feet,  he  booted  the  white  beast,  howling 
piteously,  into  the  air.  Immediately  a  pandemonium 
broke  out.  From  behind  stumps,  from  their  silty  wal- 
lows under  cross-poles  heavy  with  gutted  salmon,  stole 
forth  a  horde  of  skeleton-thin  dogs,  their  short  ears 
and  bushy  tails  upright.  They  formed  a  semi-circle, 
advancing  to  surround  Gail  with  piercing,  enduring 
howls.  He  only  held  his  ground,  until  he  saw  Vinegar 
beside  him,  shaking  with  hearty  laughter.  Then  he 
charged  the  ring;  and  it  retreated  elastically,  yet  to 
advance  again  with  the  same  defiant  cowardice. 
Frowsy,  human  heads  poked  out  from  under  their 
grimy  canvases,  with  guttural  shouts ;  arms  hurled  out 
empty  tin  cans,  and  the  dog  bedlam  slowly  lapsed 
into  a  cowed  whining,  a  sneaking  of  furry  forms  back 
to  their  beds. 

But  Gail  had  waked  the  whole  settlement,  and 
surely  Lamar.  Still,  he  did  not  regret  that.  He  had 


252       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

been  considering  how  he  would  approach  the  man. 
Ready  as  he  was  for  an  open  fight,  he  shrank  from 
ransacking  his  tent  in  the  small  hours,  like  a  burglar. 

"  Lamar,"  said  Vinegar,  laconically,  pointing  inland 
to  the  far  end  of  the  flat;  and  then,  to  the  last  cabin 
at  that  edge  of  the  clearing,  "  I  go  my  fader,  Attalota  " : 
and  loped  off  thither  with  a  pfuk,  pfuk,  of  his  moccasins 
in  the  light,  black  silt. 

Gail  was  alone. 

A  tide  of  foreboding  rose  through  his  frame.  The 
silver  wafer  of  the  late-setting  moon  shed  a  glaze  upon 
the  peaks,  so  sharp  and  black  and  near  in  the  south, 
upon  their  inert,  high  glaciers.  The  stars  swam  red- 
dish. Where  the  Siwash  had  pointed,  he  made  out  only 
a  clump  of  popple,  pale  in  the  sombre  sea  of  spruce, 
and  started  toward  it.  He  passed  shapeless  mounds, 
dim  depressions  filled  with  tangled  rose-bushes  —  for- 
gotten habitations.  A  sense  of  the  ancientness  of  this 
native  settlement  pervaded  him.  It  had  an  air  of  peace 
and  changelessness  impossible  in  a  whiteman's  clearing; 
here  was  an  unmarred  record  of  the  world  from  the 
remotest  Then  to  Now.  Here  was  the  continuity  of 
man,  of  generation  to  generation;  immortality.  And 
to  what  end?  A  shiftless  indolence,  impotence,  decay. 
This  flicker  of  life  mocked  at  its  fire  in  himself.  Was 
the  North  inherently  so  cancelling?  His  boots  trod  the 
rich  soil  yieldingly. 

At  the  edge  of  the  aspen  grove,  Gail  felt  a  sudden 
hunger,  and  remembered  that  he  had  eaten  no  supper. 
All  the  valley  glittered,  frostily.  The  air  seemed  curi- 
ously sensitive  to  sound,  and  dry  sticks  underfoot 
crackled  inordinately  loud.  He  had  passed  half  way 
through  the  trees,  when  he  saw  a  dim  globe  of  light 
behind  a  long  white  wall.  It  was  more  than  a  tent; 


THE    CANVAS    HOUSE  258 

canvas  had  been  stretched  upon  a  stiff  frame,  making 
a  one-story  house  with  a  gable  roof.  This  was  joined 
on  the  right  by  a  passageway,  also  of  duck,  to  a  square 
cabin  of  barked  logs  chinked  with  moss.  Standing  back 
at  a  distance  in  the  grove,  were  two  large  army  tents 
under  flys,  one  of  them  lighted.  The  intruders  were  in 
possession  of  the  dry-farmers'  headquarters,  for  Gail 
read,  burned  on  a  board  over  the  cabin's  hidden  door: 
"  The  Chyta  Exploration  Company." 

With  a  twinge  of  anger  at  this,  he  nerved  himself  to 
stand  his  ground.  Despite  the  glow  through  the  wall, 
not  a  sound  issued  from  within. 

Then  Gail  knocked  deliberately  on  the  wooden  cross- 
piece  of  the  white  door.  It  had  a  shining  china  knob. 

"  Hello  — "  came  a  voice.  It  was  a  woman's  voice. 
Its  lack  of  surprise  at  that  hour  of  the  night  held  Gail 
dumb.  "Who  is  it?  What  do  you  want?  Where  are 
you  from? "  The  words,  approaching  closer  to  the 
jamb,  lowered  into  a  whisper.  They  sounded  nervous, 
apprehensive,  yet  in  no  way  timid. 

Wildly  Gail's  heart  began  to  thump.  He  recognised 
the  clear-cut,  mellow  voice.  It  was  Clara's. 

IV 

There  had  thrilled  him,  before  the  surging  tide  of  her 
personality,  a  sharp  sense  of  the  naked  sex  in  there. 
Womanhood !  —  her  womanhood  —  dominating  the  ex- 
quisite peril  in  which  he  stood;  after  these  gruelling, 
too-vivid  months,  the  first  hint  of  feminine  self-conscious- 
ness, of  its  oblique  resources  in  defence.  Gail  felt  him- 
self awaking  from  a  harsh,  endless  dream,  filled  with  a 
reckless  and  bold  enchantment  that  dimmed  his  high 
resolves,  heightened  his  latent  sensibilities.  Then  a  hot- 
headed, overwhelming  hunger  seized  him,  to  burst  open 


254       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

the  door,  declare  himself,  demand  all  of  her.  He  fought 
to  curb  it. 

He  clenched  his  fists,  took  a  steadying  step  backward. 
He  strove  to  realise  his  responsibilities  to  them  across 
the  river.  He  could  not  enter  until  he  knew  who  else 
was  inside,  who  might  be  stirring  in  the  tents  behind. 
If  he  hid  his  identity  a  while,  he  might  find  out  all  that 
he  wanted  —  about  the  judge's  decision,  her  stand  with 
Lamar.  Then  to  burst  in,  and  no  matter! 

He  planned  to  thicken  and  deepen  his  voice,  but  be- 
fore he  could  reply,  she  spoke  again: 

"  You're  a  whiteman?  " 

"  Yes.     From  across  the  river." 

"From  —  John?"  she  hesitated,  wistfully. 

Gail  was  taken  a-back.  "John?  Who  — John?" 
he  stammered. 

"  Hartline,  of  course,"  she  retorted  quickly.  "  Any- 
one ought  to  know  that  he  and  his  gang  are  no  friends 
of  ours,"  she  added  with  a  guarded  asperity. 

She  had  not  recognised  him.  For  an  instant  this 
satisfaction  utterly  engrossed  Gail. 

"  I'm  from  Blackwood,  the  Marshal,"  he  proffered, 
cautiously.  "  I  want  to  see  Lamar." 

"  Go  away,  then.  We're  hardly  anxious  about 
Blackwood,  either."  Her  tone  was  abrupt,  withering. 
It  was  the  Clara  that  he  knew! 

"  He's  lost  —  lost  his  paddles,  and  drifted  down 
river.  You  know  what  that  means  on  the  Atna." 

"  Oh  —  oh ! "  There  was  pain  in  the  cry,  but  it 
chiefly  voiced  the  sex's  blind  reflex  of  nerve  before 
tragedy.  "  Mr.  Lamar  isn't  here,"  she  continued  after 
a  pause,  and  with  a  trace  of  impatience.  "  He's  gone 
down  river,  too.  We're  all  packing  up  to  follow.  .  .  . 
But  who  are  you?  " 


THE    CANVAS    HOUSE 

Her  complacency  irritated  him.  But  with  the  final 
question,  she  gave  a  slight,  persuasive,  adventurous 
laugh.  Indeed,  it  was  the  old  Clara.  And  Gail  not 
answering,  she  seized  and  turned  the  door-knob.  He 
gripped  and  held  it.  Baffled,  she  only  laughed  again, 
banteringly,  and  withdrew  her  hand. 

"  Aren't  you,  really,  from  the  dry-farmers  ?  I 
wish  — "  she  subdued  her  voice,  solicitous ;  ended  her 
sentence  warily  after  a  considering  pause,  "  I  only 
wish  you  were  from  them." 

Gail  started,  fired  by  memories.  She  had  said  on 
the  steamer  that  only  loyalty  to  her  betrothed  had  kept 
her  from  succouring  the  dry-farmers.  There  was 
Avery's  news  that  she  was  acting  "  contrary  "  to  Lamar. 
Could  it  be  true  that  she  had  taken  her  stand  against 
him? 

"  Well,"  he  said  daringly,  "  I  am." 

"  Then  you  can  tell  me,  about  whether  — "  she  broke 
out,  eager,  but  again  checked  herself.  "  How  much  do 
you  know,  anyway  ?  "  she  whispered. 

Gail  purposely  prolonged  the  silence,  in  the  hope  of 
further  admissions  from  her.  He  thrilled,  protectively, 
to  the  double  game  she  might  be  playing  —  and  quite 
fearlessly,  if  convinced  of  its  righteous  ends,  he  knew. 

"  Are  you  alone  in  there  ?  "  he  asked.  "  How  many 
men  in  the  other  tents  ?  " 

"  About  fifteen.  And  all  armed,"  she  asserted,  still 
on  her  guard.  "  Including  " —  her  voice  fell  as  with 
design,  "  Mr.  Charles  Lamar." 

"  You  contradict  yourself.  He's  gone  down  the 
Atna,  you  said." 

"  I  know  I  do,  but  — " 

Gail  felt  her  hesitation  fix  a  tie  between  them. 

"  Then   you're   not    siding  with  him? "   he   quickly 


256       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

followed  his  advantage,  warming  to  the  clever  indirec- 
tion with  which  she  had  revealed  and  covered  her  atti- 
tude. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  her  silence  was  admission 
enough  for  Gail.  Burning  with  joy,  his  hands  shot  out 
toward  the  knob,  but  a  question  from  her  stayed  him. 

"  If  you're  really  one  of  the  Hartlines,  and  the  Mar- 
shal's raft  is  gone  —  how  did  you  cross  the  river?  " 

"Who  else  could  I  be?  There's  only  our  two  out- 
fits within  a  hundred  miles  of  here." 

"  Except  those  mountain-climbers,"  she  interposed. 
"  And  I  guess  they're  lost." 

Gail  strained  his  ears  to  catch  any  wave  of  dejection 
in  her  tone.  But  he  discerned  none.  Why  should  there 
be,  before  a  total  stranger,  in  one  so  self-controlled? 

"  I  took  the  census-man's  boat,"  he  said.  "  And  I've 
got  to  return  it.  He'll  need  it  coming  from  Scolai 
Pass." 

"  Ah,"  she  breathed,  as  in  satisfaction,  adding  with 
her  puzzling  laugh,  "  Oh,  no,  he  won't.  How  could 
he  get  back  from  the  Scolai  before  winter?  You  don't 
know  this  country,  do  you?  He  didn't  cross  the  Atna 
to  count  any  Siwash  noses.  I  sent  him." 

The  letter  he  had  given  John  flashed  through  Gail. 
No  doubt  now  about  her  stand!  He  conceived  a  new 
respect  for  the  pompous  census  man,  at  least  as  an 
actor. 

"  Why  don't  you  let  me  see  you  ?  "  she  persisted. 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second  it  pierced  Gail  that  all 
the  time  she  knew  who  he  was ;  was  playing  him  for  a 
show-down.  It  would  be  like  her. 

"  I'd  run  too  big  a  risk,"  evaded  Gail,  "  with  Lamar 
so  close." 

"  Then  what  do  you  want  ?  "  she  harked  back. 


THE    CANVAS    HOUSE  257 

Gail  assembled  his  wits.  But  was  he  not  sure  of 
her?  "  To  find  out  the  Court's  decision,"  he  declared. 
"  About  who  gets  Torlina." 

A  prolonged  wait  followed.  Then  from  Clara,  de- 
cisively :  "  I  don't  know  that.  Charley's  had  the 
papers  locked  here  in  his  safe.  He  knows,  but  he  won't 
tell  me.  Our  plan  is  to  withdraw  down  river,  and  wait 
till  you  people  cross.  Can  you  figure  what  that  might 
indicate,  whether  the  verdict's  for  or  against  John  ?  " 

Again  — "  John." 

"  That  might  mean  either  way.  But  possession  is  all 
ten  points  of  the  law  in  this  country.  Still,  if  the  de- 
cision is  against  us,  why  wouldn't  you  all  stay  here  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  minute."  Gail  heard  her  step  back  from 
the  door,  and  then  a  metallic  jar,  the  rustle  of  papers. 
He  held  his  breath. 

"  Everything  in  here's  upside  down,"  she  whispered, 
returning.  "  But  if  you  want  to  come  in  and  look,  I 
think  the  papers  are  in  the  black  tin  box  at  the  right 
end  of  the  draughting  table.  It's  unlocked,  but  I  hadn't 
time  to  make  them  out." 

"  Good !  "  he  raised  his  voice  excitedly.  "  I'm  com- 
ing — " 

"  Sh !  Sh !  "  she  murmured.  "  Not  so  loud.  You'll 
wake  him." 

Gail's  bosom  froze. 

"  Wake  —  wake  whom  ?  "  he  gasped.  Was  it  all  a 
trap? 

"  Our  surveyor,  Lindsey.     He's  sleeping  in  here." 

"  What's  John  Hartline  to  you  ?  "  Gail  demanded, 
fiercely,  grasping  at  a  straw. 

"  You,  one  of  the  dry-farmers,  don't  know  ?  "  she  re- 
torted, half-mockingly.  "  Still,  John  always  was  too 
cautious,  or  ashamed  of  me  lately.  I  thought  he'd 


258       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

be  coming  back  with  Avery,  after  my  message  was  de- 
livered. We'  could  have  met  like  this,  perhaps  for  the 
last  time."  Her  voice  trembled  with  feeling.  Gail 
could  not  believe  his  ears.  "  You  see,  it's  safe  enough. 
I  stayed  up  after  packing,  and  then  when  the  dogs 
howled,  I  thought  of  course  he'd  come,  considering  he 
is  my — "  Her  voice  caught. 

A  blaze  of  understanding  lighted  Gail's  eyes.  For 
quite  a  minute  he  could  not  speak. 

"  Brother?  "  he  muttered.     "  You  —  John's  sister?  " 

"  Why,  yes  —  of  course.  I  only  found  him  this  sum- 
mer. But  get  away.  Look  out  for  yourself.  Some- 
one's coming.  It's  Charley.  He's  awake,  and  must 
have  heard  us.  He  can't  find  us  here  together." 

Gail  gripped  his  overturned  senses.  This,  then,  was 
John  Hartline's  tragedy!  Clear  now  was  all  his  sup- 
pressed fervour,  his  irresolution  to  strike  at  the  enemy, 
shielded,  perhaps,  by  his  own  kin. 

And  Clara  between  them,  caught  by  the  passions  of 
the  North,  in  the  bond  of  loyalty  to  Lamar  on  one  side, 
to  her  flesh  and  blood  on  the  other.  Ever  steadfast, 
according  to  her  nobler  lights.  He  would  trust  her. 

Gail  heard  footsteps,  both  advancing  and  retreating 
along  the  passageway.  Not  a  word  was  uttered  as  they 
passed  there.  Then,  in  the  tent,  a  bluff  voice  called, 
"  Phil ! "  and  there  was  a  wiry,  flexible  creaking,  as  of 
bed-springs. 

Had  she  gone,  had  he  lost  all  chance  to  behold,  to 
claim  her?  Hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  Gail  wrenched 
the  white  knob,  flung  open  the  door,  and  strode  into  the 
canvas  house. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
CLARA 


AT  once,  the  light  quite  blinded  him.  Gradually,  in  the 
astonished  silence  of  two  pairs  of  eyes,  of  two  human 
forms,  Gail  discerned  a  long  table  covered  with  blue- 
prints, brass  instruments,  leather  cases.  It  rose  from 
a  disorder  of  open  boxes,  valises,  khaki  clothing,  fire- 
arms leaning  against  the  walls,  collapsible  camp-chairs. 
In  its  middle,  a  glass  lamp  with  roses  painted  on  the 
shade  cast  its  light  on  a  square,  japanned  box  with  a 
handle  in  the  top.  Matting  covered  the  board  floor. 
It  was  all  like  a  city  office ;  it  had  an  air  of  settled  im- 
portance, which  after  Gail's  stern  existence  in  the  opens 
cowed  and  dazed  him. 

Not  Lamar,  but  Lindsey,  the  secretary,  standing  on 
the  far  side  of  the  table,  first  fixed  Gail's  sight  over  the 
lamp.  Its  glow  struck  upward  upon  the  lines  and 
shadows  of  an  angular,  palish  face,  large  eyes  behind 
thin  glases  fixed  to  a  thread  of  gold  chain,  a  head  al- 
most bald,  a  countenance  that  seemed  hollow  and  as- 
cetic. But  though  Alaska  had  not  even  tanned  him,  the 
cords  of  his  young  neck,  vanishing  into  a  brown  sweater 
faced  with  a  blue  "  S,"  showed  a  lithe  muscularity. 
He  had  just  risen  from  the  blankets  of  the  woven  wire 
cot  behind  him.  Yawning,  he  lit  the  calabash  pipe  in 
his  hand,  deferred  a  self-effacing  glance  toward  Lamar, 
and  picking  up  a  pair  of  dividers,  leaned  over  one  of 
the  blue-prints. 

259 


260       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

"  You  want  to  see  me  ?  How  did  you  get  in  here  ?  " 
came  in  a  thick  early-morning  huskiness  from  Gail's  left. 
Lamar's  stocky  bulk  seemed  squeezed  into  the  home-made 
easy-chair  that  was  backed  with  a  strip  of  duck.  He 
was  a  strong  man  with  red,  bristling  hair,  a  bulbous 
nose,  and  dressed  in  blue  serge.  He  was  big,  but  not 
beefy. 

"  I'm  back  from  Mt.  Lincoln,"  Gail  managed  to  enun- 
ciate. "  I  hear  people  thought  we  were  lost."  He 
wanted,  by  startling  the  man,  to  extend  the  pause,  in 
order  to  study  him.  His  stoutness  was  the  sort  that  is 
all  fibre;  his  redness  insisted  vitality.  Puttees  cased 
his  well- shaped  yet  piano  legs,  and  a  snake-skin  belt  cut 
a  furrow  into  his  trim  but  protruding  stomach.  The 
head  of  shoe-brush  hair  was  square,  all  but  flat  on  top. 
The  North  had  burned  and  mottled  his  full  cheeks,  had 
shrunk  to  mere  embossed  scars  what  surely  had  been 
purses  under  his  acute  greenish  eyes.  These,  and  his 
air  of  aggression  held  in  reserve,  more  than  the  colour 
of  his  hair,  gave  the  lie  to  a  Hebrew  aspect  inherent  in 
his  nose  and  bulk.  Gail  judged  that  while  vanity,  even 
self-indulgence,  might  claim  him  in  civilisation,  his  phy- 
sique enabled  him  to  forgo  them  easily  in  Alaska,  and 
revel  in  its  arduous  life. 

"With  Snowden's  son  — John  T.'s  boy,  eh?"  he 
said,  eyeing  the  matting,  in  a  tone  that  evinced  pride 
in  the  acquaintanceship.  "  Bob's  always  been  a  credit 
to  the  old  man,"  he  added  with  ironic  candour.  A  sort 
of  cat-that-swallowed-the-canary  smile  crept  over  his 
face,  as  he  glanced  up  toward  his  clerk,  Lindsey. 

"Yes,"  asserted  Gail.  But  he  felt  tongue-tied,  too 
aware  of  the  fresh  wound  on  his  temple. 

"  What  in  thunder  is  a  man  like  you  up  to  such  fool- 
ishness for?  "  exclaimed  Lamar  with  sudden  emphasis, 


CLARA  261 

after  scrutinising  him  narrowly.  He  settled  himself  in 
the  chair  with  a  hulking  movement.  Gail  noted  that 
neither  what  had  become  of  Bob,  or  whether  they  had 
reached  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  appeared  to  inter- 
est him. 

"  He  died,  and  I  went  on  to  the  top  alone,"  declared 
Gail,  with  an  impulsive  idea  that  Lamar  was  the  sort 
whose  confidence  an  easy  frankness  would  win. 

Lindsey  started  and  dropped  his  compasses ;  but 
Lamar  only  concentrated  his  gaze.  "  Accident  of 
course  ?  "  he  asked  bluntly.  "  I  hope  you'll  convince 
this  Marshal  of  ours  so."  He  paused.  "  If  you  can't, 
come  to  me.  That  boy'd  never  amount  to  anything  in 
this  country.  He  was  no  good,  anyhow.  I  guess  John 
T.  can  be  let  down  easy." 

His  brutality  was  revolting.  And  he  showed  neither 
awe  nor  incredulity  over  Gail's  feat.  In  simple  loyalty 
to  Bob,  Gail  stirred  to  protest  his  disgust.  But  he  only 
said,  with  a  grim  ease: 

"  I've  seen  Blackwood.  He  called  me  a  murderer." 
Gail's  muscles  set  automatically. 

"  Did  he?  "  snorted  Lamar,  whether  threateningly,  or 
in  contempt  for  Blackwood's  opinion,  Gail  could  not 
make  out. 

"  And  a  lot  of  use  that  was,"  declared  Gail,  aroused. 
"  The  Marshal's  just  lost  his  paddles,  and  drifted  down 
river  on  Vinegar  Bill's  raft." 

He  expected  to  move  the  man,  at  least ;  but  not  even 
surprise  shadowed  his  ruddy  face.  He  only  opened  his 
mouth  upon  Gail,  uttered  a  dry  chuckle,  and  slapped 
his  knee. 

"That'll  save  us  a  dollar  or  two,  hey,  Phil?"  he 
asked  genially  of  Lindsey.  An  added  loathing  filled 
Gail.  The  secretary  forced  a  wan  smile,  hunched 


THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

his  shoulders,  with  the  hint  of  a  shudder,  and  without 
looking  up  from  his  drawings,  put  in  — 

"  But  you  weren't  going  to  pay  him  that  last  hold-up, 
anyhow." 

"  I  wasn't.  But  I  was  thinking  of  future  '  touches,' 
so  long  as  we  have  a  soft-mouth  like  him  in  the  country," 
said  Lamar  with  sly  seriousness.  "  Yet  it  is  a  hard  end 
if  he  drowns,  though  his  getting  his  job  of  me  was  the 
only  case  of  these  time-serving  Alaskans  pulling  the 
wool  over  my  eyes.  And  he  made  a  good  deal  with  those 
cartridges  of  Hartline's,  buying  off  Guiteau."  He 
turned  to  Gail.  "  Now  there's  the  man  this  country 
needs,  if  you  could  start  him  right.  He  sees  things 
reasonably,  Tom  Guiteau  does." 

"  But  it  was  Tom  that  showed  up  Blackwood  to  Hart- 
line,"  broke  out  Gail,  angered.  "  The  Marshal  knew 
all  right  you'd  thrown  him,  and  tried  to  warm  up  to  the 
dry-farmers.  They  made  it  pretty  hot  for  him.  And 
he  was  the  cur  returning  to  his  vomit,  when  I  got  him  in 
the  middle  of  the  Atna  and  took  away  his  paddles." 

Gail  checked  himself  with  a  flush  of  fear.  His  in- 
dignation at  Lamar's  callousness  had  driven  his  native 
honesty  too  far.  He  was  giving  away  his  game,  reck- 
lessly, as  John  had  said  that  Ireson  would.  The  mag- 
nate lurched  forward  at  him  with  a  twitch  of  his  wide 
mouth.  Gail  tightened  his  fingers,  and  waited  with  a 
sinking  heart  for  him  to  speak. 

"  They  called  any  bluff  of  Blackwood's,  eh?  I 
thought  so,"  he  said  with  a  covert  shrewdness ;  then, 
harshly,  "  You're  one  of  the  Hartlines  ?  " 

"Yes."  Gail's  jaw  set,  meeting  the  challenge.  "I 
crossed  in  the  old  census-taker's  boat." 

"  And  lied  to  me  about  young  Snowden."  Lamar 
had  started  uncomfortably  at  the  reference  to  Averj, 


CLARA  263 

"  Well,  you've  got  an  easy  welcome  here  —  so  far. 
We  didn't  expect  any  of  you  over  till  our  legal  officer 
got  back." 

There  was  a  silence.  Lamar's  out-thrust  features  re- 
mained immobile,  fixed  upon  Gail.  But  his  small  eyes 
contracted,  and  Gail  braced  himself  to  such  a  penetra- 
tive searching  of  his  whole  being  as  life  had  never  be- 
fore inflicted. 

At  least,  the  magnate  was  not  wondering  whether 
Vinegar  Bill  had  floated  away  with  Blackwood,  nor 
could  he  guess  how  Jonesy's  end  had  heightened  the  en- 
counter in  mid-river. 

Gail  wrestled  with  his  fury  at  the  charge  of  lying. 
Lindsey  coughed  with  a  modest  ostentation. 


"  So  you  men  think  that  you  can  open  up  Alaska,  do 
you?" 

Lamar  wiped  a  big  hand  across  his  face,  and  settled 
back  in  the  chair.  Abruptly  his  manner  changed.  He 
did  not  question  the  motives  of  Gail's  visit.  He  ceased 
to  bristle.  He  spoke  defensively. 

"  Now  you  listen  to  me,  young  man." 

Tom's  temptation  and  yielding  flashed  through  Gail. 
Did  Lamar  think  that  he  had  another  mark? 

He  began  to  argue,  in  an  even,  cheery  voice  at  first. 
He  had  to  have  this  Torlina  townsite,  or  the  thou- 
sands of  dollars  that  his  backers  had  paid  for  copper 
claims,  for  railroad  surveys,  for  coal  leases,  was  thrown 
away.  Otherwise  he  would  be  cheating  them.  They 
had  taken  his  word.  This  admitted  of  no  question. 

He,  personally,  didn't  care  who  owned  the  place,  or 
for  his  own  success  in  winning  it.  He  was  only  the 
agent  of  a  power  behind  him,  back  East.  But  this  force 


264       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

was  money,  organised  and  world-wide,  magnificent.  Its 
works  were  the  measure  of  civilisation.  It  was  futile 
for  anyone  to  oppose  it ;  for  anything  to  stem  it  was  as 
hopeless  as  "  to  shove  over  Mt.  Lincoln."  Why,  Alaska, 
so  important  in  the  eyes  of  these  prospectors,  was  but 
a  passing  incident,  a  straw  in  the  grip  of  that  power; 
they  who  wielded  it  were  hardly  aware  of  Alaska's  exist- 
ence. The  development  of  the  North  was  the  work  of 
their  left  hand,  a  charity,  a  favour  to  the  nation.  It 
involved  evil,  even  suffering,  of  course.  The  travail  of 
wealth  always  must. 

He  was  plausible  and  fair.  His  tone  was  neither  oily 
nor  presumptuous.  He  was  persuasive. 

Gail  listened,  absorbed,  a  bit  bewildered.  He  had 
never  before  confronted  such  a  man  ;  one  of  those  strong, 
sleek  beings,  upon  whom  converged  the  dreams  and 
mortifications  alike  of  that  multitude  on  First  Avenue, 
Seattle.  He  was  the  focus  of  that  proud,  relentless 
city.  He  was  the  key,  both  there  and  in  Alaska,  to 
all  the  panorama  of  living  that  had  stirred  Gail  to  love, 
to  pity,  and  to  hate,  since  his  release  from  Lena.  La- 
mar  should  be  its  explanation. 

"  My  boy.  I  see  these  things  through  this  man 
Hartline's  eyes,  as  well  as  you  do,"  he  said.  "  No  one 
could  sympathise  with  his  partners  more  strongly  than 
I  do.  And  I'm  no  more  to  blame  for  wiping  them  out 
than  you  are.  So  what's  the  good  of  resistence?  "  He 
spoke  with  resignation,  as  if  humbly  bending  to  powers 
and  abilities  far  greater  than  his  own.  He  expressed 
a  sincere  pity. 

And  his  body  seemed  to  exhale  these  forces  which  he 
cited.  Gail  found  himself  trying  to  gauge  them. 

Men  like  the  dry-farmers  could  never  inherit  the 
North.  It  was  the  dominion  of  great  capital.  But  this 


CLARA  265 

was  no  more  than  Tom  had  said.  Lamar  seemed  only 
to  tap  his  truths  at  a  deeper  source,  and  express  them 
without  Tom's  scathing  lightness. 

But  he  uttered  not  a  word  as  to  right.  He  did  not 
once  mention  justice.  And  gradually  his  voice  began 
to  lose  its  geniality.  A  cold  hardness  crept  into  it. 
Slowly  his  kindly  ease  evaporated.  Gail  thought  of  the 
indifference  which  he  had  evinced  toward  Bob  and  Black- 
wood.  The  man  had  been  oblivious  of  that.  There 
was  something  at  bottom  cruel.  .  .  . 

Gail's  eyes  wandered  to  a  round  nickel  shaving  mirror, 
fixed  to  a  wooden  rib  of  the  tent  over  Lamar's  head. 
Then  to  the  tin  box  on  the  right  of  the  lamp  ;  to  Lindsey, 
glancing  upward  now  and  then,  with  the  look  of  a  con- 
firming, faltering  disciple.  Gail  could  see  his  own  dark 
features  and  their  slant  eyebrows  in  the  looking-glass. 

"  As  for  my  own  stake,  I'm  only  looking  to  the  fu- 
ture," said  Lamar.  "  I  have  my  kids  to  provide  for, 
the  same  as  you  boys.  And  I  believe  in  the  survival  of 
them  that  do  survive." 

True !  Clara  had  said  he  was  "  a  man,  too,"  though 
the  copper  trust  was  his  God.  And  Gail  thought: 
"  If  this  capable  vitality  of  his  were  only  wielded  for 
the  good  of  men  like  the  dry-farmers !  Could  they  but 
command  such  forces  as  backed  Lamar  —  for  the  right. 
Might  a  man  of  his  primitive  power  be  enlisted  in  the 
just  conquest  of  the  Youngest  World!  Why  must  so 
dominant  a  spirit  be  in  league  with  evil?  " 

Then  Lamar  began  to  talk  about  the  Government's 
hand  in  his  affairs.  He  praised  it,  patronisingly.  But 
often  it  had  hypocritically  opposed  him.  He  had  out- 
witted it,  and  Washington  had  shrivelled  before  the  di- 
vinities behind  him.  He  told  how  he  had  "  managed  " 
courts,  appointed  deputies.  He  boasted. 


266       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

All  this  was  the  might  which  had  degraded  Tom, 
the  hot-headed,  defiant,  independent;  and  indirectly, 
through  the  craven  Blackwood.  That  somehow  was  a 
measure  of  Lamar's  power.  It  was  appalling  —  in- 
fernal. .  .  .  Something  sinister,  noxious,  lurked  in  the 
air  of  the  tent.  Now  and  then  he  broke  his  overbearing 
monotone  with  a  desolating  laugh.  It  resounded, 
throaty  —  brutal.  His  thick  face  set;  his  small  eyes 
sharpened,  snapping  with  suspicion.  Gail's  heart  sick- 
ened. Never  had  such  a  ferment  gulfed  him. 

He  pulled  himself  together  with  the  reflection :  "  Does 
he  think  that  he's  carrying  me  with  him?  .  .  .  Why, 
he's  only  hanging  himself !  " 

Gail  pictured  him  in  a  Seattle  sky-scraper,  or  back 
East,  commanding  from  a  leather  chair,  amid  brass 
and  mahogany.  He  saw  those  stooping,  hairy  youths 
across  the  river,  reading  their  letters  from  home  in  the 
firelight,  hurling  them  into  the  embers  at  Ireson's  chal- 
lenge. He  saw  Mease  passing  about  his  photograph 
of  the  tired  wife  in  black  alpaca.  ...  All  their  four 
years  of  struggle  and  privation  —  their  toil,  their  lies 
mailed  home.  That  four  years  of  faith  and  suffering 
in  Kingdom.  .  :  . 

But  Lamar  was  right.  All  that  he  said  was  true. 
And  it  was  this  truth  that  moved  Gail  to  a  bitter  and 
consuming  hate.  .  .  .  Lamar  blocked  the  enduring  life 
of  others.  And  Bob  had  decreed  when  to  kill.  .  .  . 

But  the  big,  red  man  here  was  only  the  tool  of  the 
juggernaut,  of  that  distant,  inexorable  force  which  Gail 
felt  throbbing  through  the  tent,  which  had  ruined  Hart- 
line  and  the  boys,  degraded  Blackwood,  Tom.  .  .  . 
Only  the  cat's  paw,  the  instrument.  Yet  without  him, 
the  juggernaut  was  powerless;  its  heart  would  be  dead; 
its  corroding  poison  words  and  water.  Without  him, 


CLARA  267 

that  cancer  which  had  destroyed  pioneering,  which  was 
eating  through  the  Youngest  World,  was  pulp.  .  .  . 
Without  his  strong  body  sitting  there,  like  the  cave- 
man that  he  was,  defying  Life,  and  all  the  Future.  .  .  . 

"  So  what  are  you  after  over  here  ?  "  ended  Lamar, 
with  a  complacent  weariness.  "  What  do  you  men 
want?" 

It  was  all  unreal.  Gail  was  not  in  Alaska.  He  was 
standing  somewhere  in  a  dream. 

"Bread!  Bread!"  he  broke  out  harshly.  "For 
their  starving  wives  and  kids." 

The  room  of  canvas  danced  around  him.  The  blue 
maps,  the  lamp  with  the  painted  roses,  swam  in  his  eyes. 

"  Then  name  your  price,"  growled  the  magnate. 
"  We  don't  give  flour  away  in  this  country,  even  to 
Siwashes.  What's  Hartline's  lay  ?  "  His  voice  seemed 
to  come  from  far  away. 

Gail  controlled  himself.  He  felt  that  he  shouted,  yet 
he  knew  that  he  lied  without  a  quaver :  "  Only  this : 
Half  the  crowd  went  out  to  the  coast  this  summer  and 
packed  in  cartridges  for  the  ones  you  stole,  by  that 
mountain-climber's  trail.  The  twenty  of  them'll  be 
over  here  by  daylight,  unless  — " 

Lamar's  self-possession  was  perfect.  His  gaze  did 
not  even  flinch.  "  Unless  what?  "  he  said,  icily.  "  Un- 
less I  show  you  the  Court's  decision  that  Blackwood 
brought  into  camp  last  night  ?  " 

"  That's  it,"  said  Gail,  amazed  at  his  own  calmness. 

"  Well,  they  won't  find  me  here,"  he  laughed  drily. 
"  They're  welcome  to  their  cabin.  We're  pulling  off 
down  river  at  daylight." 

"  Then  the  verdict's  against  you  ?  "  Time  seemed 
to  stand  still. 

"  The  decision?     Yes."     Lamar  spoke  gloomily,  in  a 


268       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

hushed  voice.  Gail's  heart  leaped.  For  an  instant  he 
believed.  Was  not  this  in  line  with  what  Clara  had 
revealed? 

"  Man  —  what's  the  matter  with  you?  "  were  the  next 
words  that  Gail  heard.  "  You're  as  white  as  these  walls. 
.  .  .  Have  some  coffee?  .  .  .  Lindsey,  go  and  tell  them 
in  the  tents." 

He  saw  the  lean  secretary  edge  around  the  table,  dis- 
appear down  the  canvas-covered  tunnel.  .  .  .  Clara! 
Would  she  return? 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  wake  the  boys,  too,"  said  Lamar. 
"  To  finish  this  packing.  It's  almost  daylight." 

He  arose  and  strode  past  Gail,  ignoringly,  with  a 
brusque,  intent  heaviness,  leaving  him  alone. 

Surely  the  Indians  owned  other  rafts.  Out  of  there, 
across  the  river  with  his  news !  He  had  succeeded,  and 
without  a  fight.  .  .  .  Yet  he  could  not  stir  a  muscle. 
He  had  not  begun  to  win  his  consuming  purpose.  Not 
even  seen  Clara!  He  stared  around  the  tent,  and  his 
eyes  fell  on  the  tin  box.  Suppose  that  Lamar  had  lied 
to  him  ?  Gail  thought  of  the  man's  long,  studied  speech, 
and  his  gorge  rose  again.  No.  The  two  things  did 
not  match:  Lamar's  withering  assurance,  and  this 
favourable  verdict  —  this  haste  in  breaking  camp.  He 
had  been  tricked. 

Gail  tiptoed  over  to  the  japanned  box,  and  raised  the 
cover.  Right  on  top,  unfolded,  face  up,  with  its  red 
seal  and  dark  green  typewriting  full  in  the  lamp-light, 
lay  the  judge's  words.  He  devoured  the  heavy,  guarded 
sentences.  Slowly  they  sank  into  his  brain.  .  .  . 
Lamar  had  told  the  truth. 

He  stared,  bewildered,  fascinated,  at  the  blunt  and 
potent  page.  It  was  unbelievable.  Surely  there  was  a 
retraction,  a  qualification,  somewhere.  He  lifted  the 


CLARA  269 

document,  turned  it  over  to  look  on  the  other  side.  And 
as  he  did  so,  another  sheet,  underneath  it,  caught  his 
eyes.  The  paper  was  the  same,  but  the  writing  was 
penned,  in  a  flourishing  hand  with  purple  ink  —  and 
the  straight  words  lashed  him: 

VALDEZ,  Sept.  9th,  '03. 
Dear  Charley:  — 

The  enclosed  verdict  is  rendered  according  to  the  facts,  but 
get  wise  to  the  joker.  You  will  see  that  I  give  Hartline  pos- 
session on  his  old  homestead  deeds.  Now,  I  have  just  received 
this  ruling  from  the  Seattle  Land  Office:  The  winners  of  the  suit 
must  re-file  their  location  papers  at  the  Valdez  Office  within  48 
hours.  Failing  that,  the  tract  is  open  again.  I  have  copied  their 
original  papers,  and  hold  them  here  for  your  signature. 

Yours,  etc., 

DONELSON  — "  J." 

Gail's  jaws  ground  together.  So  that  was  the 
treachery!  The  despoiling  juggernaut  speaking  from 
headquarters!  He  felt  the  skin  upon  his  temples 
pucker,  and  all  his  pulses  start  to  pound.  The  cynic 
shamelessness  of  the  quoted  "  Judge !  "  Gail  beheld  his 
haggard  face  in  the  little  shaving  mirror,  his  high, 
flaming  cheekbones,  the  black  hollows  of  his  eyes. 

He  seized  the  paper,  crumpled  it  into  his  pocket. 
Time  still  remained  for  John  to  hit  the  Valdez  trail 
ahead  of  them.  No  wonder  Lamar  was  pulling  out; 
not  down  the  river,  of  course ;  that  was  a  blind,  but  out 
to  the  court,  since  the  forty-eight  hours  were  long  past. 
It  must  be  a  race. 

There  was  a  creaking  sound  behind  him,  approaching, 
on  the  boards  of  the  passageway.  It  ceased  abruptly. 
Gail  was  conscious  of  a  human  presence,  and  his  heart 
seemed  to  crowd  into  his  throat.  Still  staring  into  the 
mirror,  he  caught  sight  over  his  left  shoulder  of  Clara's 
hard,  bright  animal  eyes,  her  oval  face,  dark  with 


270       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

health,  but  strangely  lined.  Wisps  of  vapour  floated 
across  it.  She  carried  a  steaming  coffee-pot.  He  felt 
a  dissolving,  overpowering  passion.  Now  —  or  never 
—  for  his  destiny.  .  .  . 

Transfixed,  Gail  murmured  her  name.  Again,  and 
once  more,  "  Clara  —  Clara !  " 

"  Gabriel !  .  .  .  Save  us.  .  .  ." 

The  face  had  gone.  Light  steps  pattered,  receding 
down  the  canvas  tunnel.  Gail's  hand  was  still  on  the 
open  cover  of  the  box.  She  had  come  to  warn  him. 
He  blessed  her.  And  their  eyes  had  met.  She  knew 
that  he  was  here,  alive  and  well.  Enough,  for  the  mo- 
ment! No  power  now  could  keep  them  apart. 

Gail  dropped  the  tin  cover,  but  its  snap-to  was 
drowned  by  ^a  cry  and  a  crash  in  the  passage.  A 
thumping  of  heavy  footsteps,  a  roar  —  "  You  hound  of 
hell ! " —  and  a  fist  blow  from  behind,  in  the  small  of 
Gail's  neck,  tumbled  him  forward  headlong -upon  the 
matting.  He  struggled  to  rise,  against  lunging  arms, 
against  a  satanic  red  face,  and  the  wiry,  fire-eyed  Lind- 
sey.  He  was  gaining  his  feet,  loosening  the  thickset 
fingers  from  his  throat,  when,  with  redoubled  oaths,  the 
men  pinioned  both  his  fists.  At  first'  he  had  struck 
back  frenziedly,  goaded  to  fury  by  the  touch  of  their 
flesh,  with  a  lustful  joy  in  the  fight;  but  soon,  having 
such  odds  against  him,  Gail  saw  the  folly  of  inviting  a 
knock-out  or  maiming  |hat  would  keep  him  from  reach- 
ing the  river. 

He  stalled;  and  for  a  second  Lamar's  gross,  fiendish 
jowls,  his  hot  and  spluttering  lips,  wavered  distorted. 
With  a  flash  Gail  read  the  pair's  purpose  to  bind  and 
keep  him  a  prisoner.  He  braced  every  sinew  in  his 
frame,  thrust  the  last  atom  of  his  strength  into  a  mad 
break  for  freedom.  And  thinking  that  Gail  had  yielded, 


CLARA  271 

their  grip  had  weakened.  He  slid  through  it,  struggled 
past  them,  flung  himself  down  the  canvas  tunnel.  He 
kicked  the  coffee-pot  that  they  had  knocked  from 
Clara's  hands.  To  the  left,  an  opening  led  toward 
the  two  tents.  But  it  was  filled  with  moving,  shouting 
forms  aroused  by  the  scuffle.  So  trapped,  Gail  plunged 
straight  ahead,  and  threw  his  body  against  the  heavy 
door  of  the  dry-farmers'  cabin. 

It  gave  with  him.  He  fell  into  darkness,  stumbled 
over  a  big  open  box,  and  hurled  the  timbers  of  the 
door  closed  upon  the  stampeding  footsteps.  Grop- 
ing, his  fingers  closed  on  an  iron  bolt  above  the  wooden 
latch.  He  shot  the  bolt  to  safely, 

m 

Gail  caught  his  panting  breath.  Outside,  silence 
succeeded  the  shuffling  of  feet.  A  single  fist  banged 
upon  the  boards,  as  if  testing  his  security.  Then  Lind- 
sey's  high,  precise  voice: 

"  It  was  she  that  told  him  where  those  papers  were, 
through  the  door  before  he  came  in.  I  had  no  chance 
to  warn  you  before.  They  thought  I  was  asleep,  and 
I  was  at  first," 

Lamar  broke  into  vile,  burly  oaths  at  his  reticence. 
"And  damn  her!  That's  the  last  I  stomach.  I'll  fix 
the  woman.  Now,  you  keep  her  off  while  we  hold  him." 

All  hope,  everything,  was  lost.  His  manhood  was 
defeated,  his  life  —  blasted.  Despair  and  darkness 
welled  through  his  soul,  numbing  even  his  fury.  At  the 
moment  of  victory,  he,  too,  had  failed,  like  Bob  and  all 
the  rest. 

Yet  had  he?  In  the  depths  of  his  being,  gleamed 
one  faint,  cheering  light.  The  North  had  been  the 
touchstone  of  his  prayers,  and  transformed  her; 


273      THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

through  John  or  not,  no  matter;  the  land  had  won 
her  from  Lamar,  won  her  fire  and  her  conscience  for 
justice  and  the  right,  for  him.  And  some  day  the  right 
must  triumph,  irresistioly,  inevitably,  however  far  from 
her  he  should  be,  or  dead  his  aching  heart.  Only 
blindly  he  gritted  his  teeth  to  shield  her  now  from  the 
menace  of  that  brute. 

He  heard  the  men  withdraw  toward  the  army  tents 
with  vindictive  mutters,  and  understood  why  they  did 
not  force  an  entrance.  Trapped  and  guarded  in  the 
cabin,  he  was  as  good  as  bound  hand  and  foot  from 
warning  his  partners  —  while  Lamar  hit  the  Valdez 
trail. 

Gail  stared  around  the  darkness  of  his  prison.  Dimly 
he  began  to  make  out  its  store  of  truck:  axe-handles 
and  pick-heads,  upturned  sleds  and  travoys  with  rusty 
runners ;  a  gasolene  engine,  sawbuck  saddles,  broken 
bales  of  hay,  and  the  large  whitish  skins  of  lynxes  dan- 
gling from  the  roof.  There  was  a  smell  of  tar,  of  dried 
animal  tissue  and  soil  decayed  in  darkness.  The  day 
was  dawning.  A  crowbar  leaned  against  the  logs  op- 
posite the  door,  and,  high  above  it,  Gail  saw  a  small 
window  barred  with  iron  rods.  Through  them  filtered 
a  sick,  slaty  glow,  and  his  eyes  fell  on  the  open  box  that 
he  had  tripped  over.  It  held  sawdust,  through  which 
showed  thin  ribs  of  the  same  stuff,  but  agglutinated. 
He  picked  one  out,  a  stick  of  dynamite  such  as  long 
ago  he  had  used  at  work  on  the  Sequalmie  flume. 
This  was  likely  dangerously  old.  A  sudden  wonder  at 
why  a  moment  before  it  had  not  obliterated  him  with  a 
roar  and  blankness,  was  blackened  by  a  hideous  thought. 
Why  not  end  all  so,  at  once?  More  squarely  than 
Jonesy,  life  had  downed  him.  Perhaps  such  was  the 
death  that  Bob  and  old  Lincoln  ordained  when  charity 


CLARA  273 

did  not  avail.  His  toward  the  dry-farmers  had  not. 
.  .  .  One  harder  kick.  .  .  ,  With  flaring  eyes,  Gail 
raised  a  foot  above  the  sawdust  drum-sticks :  fate  was  in 
league  with  them. 

Then  he  laughed,  and  heartily. 

No!  His  forehead  and  hands  grew  slimy  and  cold 
with  sweat.  Yet  no  thought  of  right  or  wrong,  of  life 
as  a  sacred  trust,  had  withheld  him.  The  idea  of  sui- 
cide was  the  pole  most  opposite  to  his  whole  creed  of 
being.  Survival  —  indeed  by  brutish,  despoiling  forces 
—  but  survival  of  the  stronger  self,  for  his  undying 
ends,  was  the  axiom  of  all  Gail's  striving.  Self-murder 
was  the  one  outlawed  act.  He  told  himself  that  he 
had  not  been  tempted ;  that  his  saving  laugh  had  been 
stirred  by  the  sardonic  hindsight  that  he  had  not  fought 
Lamar  and  Lindsey,  as  all  his  brain  and  fibres  cried  out 
that  he  should  have  done,  even  been  killed  by  their 
heelers.  That  were  better  than  this  impotence. 

Staring  at  the  box,  Gail  saw  beside  it  a  small  paste- 
board of  detonators.  A  thought  entered  him,  routing 
this  despicable  pondering.  Hungry  and  exhausted  as 
he  was,  he  smiled  up  at  the  grated  window ;  and  the  idea 
seemed  borne  through  it  upon  the  pale,  growing  light, 
with  the  flabby-throated  "  qua-ook!  qua-ook!  "  of  ra- 
vens swinging  outside.  This  dynamite  was  Hartline's ; 
Lamar  could  not  know  of  its  existence.  Well,  even 
if  the  boys  had  no  way  to  cross  the  Atna  and  hear  of 
that  Judge's  infamy,  at  least  Gail  might  signal  that 
he  was  in  the  thick  of  their  battle.  And  perhaps  escape 
to  the  river  in  the  smoke  and  uproar.  Anyway,  this 
was  the  last  chance.  He  thrilled  to  it.  He  piled  three 
empty  condensed  milk  crates  under  the  window,  mounted 
them,  lifted  the  crowbar,  and  set  to  work  upon  the  iron 
rods. 


THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

He  muffled  both  with  sacking,  to  smother  sound  while 
he  was  prying.  This  he  did  slowly,  warily;  and  the 
bars  were  fixed  in  as  if  welded  to  the  logs.  He  heard 
the  furtive  tread  of  those  who  guarded  him  outside  the 
cabin;  an  axe  chopping;  the  jangle  of  horse-bells  and 
clink  of  hobbles,  as  the  men  with  deep,  urging  voices 
rounded  up  the  packtrain.  He  worked,  as  he  had  not 
since  buried  by  the  snowslide  with  Bob,  until  sweat  and 
blood  ran  down  from  his  cut.  It  was  an  endless  job. 
He  felt  faint,  certain  that  he  was  too  late,  when  finally, 
unnoticed,  he  had  bent  the  last  rods  inward,  and  the  flat 
was  blazing  in  the  September  sunlight.  Through  the 
grove  he  could  see  Attalota's  cabin,  where  Vinegar  Bill 
had  gone.  But  he  still  heard  the  fitful  clang  of  bells, 
as  from  a  waiting  packtrain.  Why  had  it  not  started? 
What  was  the  delay? 

He  jumped  down,  fitted  caps  to  three  of  the  sticks 
from  the  box,  hurled  them  through  the  window.  There 
was  a  deafening  reverberation,  an  upheaval;  and  Gail 
climbed  nimbly  through  the  sudden  darkening  oblong 
of  dust,  dropping  down  the  logs.  His  feet  squared 
upon  the  ground  in  the  brief  instant  of  ensuing  silence. 
Then,  as  he  started  running  toward  the  river,  through 
the  cloud  yellowed  by  the  sun,  the  tumult  arose;  first 
in  a  burst  of  howling  from  the  dogs,  like  a  pack  of  prod- 
ded wolves,  and  the  pursuit  was  on.  Cries  and  curses, 
the  beat  of  footsteps,  swelled  behind  him.  As  he 
emerged  into  the  open  flat,  he  saw  the  wolf-dogs,  scent- 
ing a  forage  after  devastation,  tearing  about  the  swale, 
white  and  grey  flashes  close  to  the  ground ;  and  in  their 
van,  through  the  drifting  dust,  the  running  forms  of 
Siwashes  from  the  startled  settlement.  They  were  now 
his  one  hope,  to  mingle  with  them  for  cover,  to  lose  him- 
self in  the  brush  along  shore.  The  yelling  gang  wag 


CLARA  275 

closing  in.  A  shot  rang  out,  and  the  tsung  of  a  bul- 
let whipped  past  Gail's  head.  He  was  opposite  Atta- 
lota's  cabin,  in  a  lingering  eddy  of  smoke.  With  a  sud- 
den impulse,  he  dodged  aside  and  plunged  against  the 
door.  A  rotten  thong  snapped,  and  he  was  inside,  un- 
der the  half-darkness  of  the  sagging  ridge-pole. 

He  saw  no  one  at  first,  as  he  softly  refastened  the 
rawhide  latch.  At  least  Vinegar  was  not  there,  and  his 
heart  rose,  hearing  also  his  pursuers  sweep  on  past, 
and  their  cries  sink  toward  the  Atna.  Then  his  swim- 
ming head  grew  aware  of  a  surrounding  squalor;  of 
rotting  fish,  and  the  decay  of  innumerable,  aged  gar- 
ments. The  grimy  logs  were  hung  with  the  jetsam  of 
the  wilderness,  a  museum  of  the  savage's  childishness: 
old  flint  locks,  stubby  Russian  guns  with  bulging  stocks, 
curved  and  inlaid  with  tarnished  silver,  modern  30-40s 
—  a  downright  arsenal ;  broken  crockery,  watch  and 
clock  works,  queerly  curved  knives  with  gut-lashed 
handles,  T-shaped  axes,  snowshoes  tufted  with  red 
worsted,  rusted  steel  traps  —  picked  up  in  the  last  hun- 
dred years  from  all  over  Alaska,  in  forests,  on  wrecks 
in  the  Arctic,  and  gathered  here  through  the  North's 
free-masonry  in  trade  and  "  potlatch." 

At  one  end  of  the  cabin,  a  rusty  stove  was  set  in  the 
pounded  earth  under  a  small  window  of  bear-bladder 
which  was  opaque,  Gail  noted  with  relief.  And  then, 
from  a  bench  along  one  wall,  where  it  ended  at  the  stove, 
under  a  heap  of  wild  sheep  skins,  greasy  blankets  and 
old  gunny-sacks,  there  was  a  stir,  and  Gail  discerned  a 
pair  of  watery  red  eyes  glittering.  The  head  of  a  very 
old  man  was  lifted.  It  was  the  face  of  a  mummy;  his 
hair  was  so  long  and  grey,  his  cheeks  so  furrowed  and 
scarred,  that  he  might  have  been  of  any  race.  What 
once  had  been  brown  overalls  covered  his  skeleton  lower 


276       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

limbs,  now  showing  through  the  frayed  cloth  like  thin 
polished  wood.  Above,  a  short,  glossy  frock  coat  hung 
from  his  bony  shoulders.  As  he  stood  up,  shivering 
and  muttering  to  himself,  a  sort  of  scapula  around  his 
neck  danced  on  his  bare  and  sunken  chest. 

"  Attalota  Ifiiyw  cold.  Attalota  scoo  good.  Atta- 
lota  big  Siwash,"  he  maundered  to  himself,  oblivious  of 
the  explosion.  This  was  his  only  recognition  of  the 
whiteman,  and  made  as  if  to  distract  his  own  surprise. 
Then  he  retched  consumptively,  stroked  his  thin,  snowy 
goatee,  and,  kneeling  on  the  mildewed  earth,  opened  the 
grate  of  the  stove,  and  began  to  whittle  shavings  from 
a  little  stick. 

Gail  gasped  and  nodded  in  reply,  seating  himself  on 
the  bench.  He  realised  instinctively  that  this  old  man 
could  be  no  partisan  of  Lamar's.  For  the  moment  he 
was  safe,  and  though  still  a  captive  and  effectively  no 
nearer  the  river,  he  had  given  his  enemies  the  slip. 

When  the  shavings  began  to  crackle,  and  the  smoke 
to  ooze  from  the  rust-pores  in  the  stove,  Attalota 
whipped  about  upon  Gail,  and  said  with  a  shrill  vigour : 
"  Jesus-man  — *  One  he  come  here  some  day.  He 
tell,  '  Bimeby  you  die  —  die.  Head,  bones,  arms, 
legs  ' " —  he  slapped  them  each,  swiftly,  with  both 
hands  —  "  '  go  down  into  earth  —  dirt  —  so!  '  He 
beat  the  soil  with  his  palms.  Then,  rising  majestically, 
and  lowering  his  voice  to  a  grandiloquent  quaver, 
"  '  Bimeby,  long  time,  ver*  long  time  —  all  flow  to- 
gether. Make  man  again!  Rise  up!  Live!  .  .  . 
Man-y,  man-y,  snow.  Up  there  —  sky.'  "  He  waved 
both  arms  toward  the  smoky  rafters.  "  You  think  so, 
eh?"  An  avid,  violent  intentness  seized  on  his  voice. 
"You  think  so  —  you?"  He  jabbed  three  lean  fiu- 

*  Missionary. 


CLARA  077 

gers  at  Gail,  and  waited  for  a  reply,  with  stained  lips 
idiotically  opened  upon  his  blackened  and  snagged 
teeth. 

"  That's  what  they  think,  all  of  them,"  said  Gail, 
but  with  a  flush  of  reverence  for  the  outcast  old  savage, 
grasping  the  doctrine  which  Gail  had  come  to  resent, 
as  robbing  from  his  own  vision  of  unending  life  its 
valour  and  brave  responsibility.  "  And  maybe  it's 
true.  I  —  I  don't  know." 

"  Tlue?  "  echoed  Attalota,  with  vehement  scorn,  his 
rat  eyes  streaming.  "  I  think  he  lie !  I  think  Jesus- 
man  all  big  lie.  I  think  hell!  "  He  hissed  his  words 
with  a  pagan  fanaticism,  and  then  burst  into  a  sup- 
pressed, whispering  laughter,  which  drew  his  crinkled 
skin  into  hideous  and  tight  concentric  cords.  At  once, 
as  Gail's  heart  warmed  at  his  earnestness,  these  loos- 
ened, and  he  added  solemnly: 

"  I  think  man  —  woman  —  live  only  by  man  follow 
man,  squaw  to  baby.  Hey?  What  you  think?  .  .  . 
Man  never  die  so." 

Gail  cast  him  a  veiled,  astonished  look.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet,  began  pacing  up  and  down  the  cabin. 
What  right  had  this  savage,  now,  to  remind  him?  The 
man's  penetration,  his  simple  wisdom,  -here,  at  this 
pivotal  moment  of  the  West's  strife  for  survival,  of  all 
its  creating  and  destroying  ardour!  .  .  .  Gail  gripped 
himself,  and  pausing,  with  a  motion  as  if  to  slap  him 
on  the  back,  exclaimed,  "  You're  all  right  —  Mike." 
But  the  old  fellow's  mouth  only  continued  its  soft, 
chattering  laughter,  as  he  filled  his  broken  teapot  and 
slid  it  upon  the  stove. 

Abruptly  Gail  stood  still.  Again  he  heard  the  dis- 
tant clink  of  horse-bells,  and  the  sound  fixed  the  resolve 
that  had  slowly  been  possessing  him.  He  would  break 


£78       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

for  the  river,  now  that  the  chase  was  over.  It  might 
not  yet  be  too  late?  And  had  he  not  crossed  to  fight? 

But  as  he  turned  to  the  door,  one  of  Attalota's  bony 
hands  drew  back  Gail's  arm.  With  the  other,  the  old 
man  dragged  from  under  a  moose  hide  a  tin  plate  of 
big,  seeded  rose-hips,  then  a  salmon  bladder,  from  which 
he  poured  a  viscous  green  oil  over  the  fruit.  He  stuck 
a  spoon  in  the  mess  and  proffered  it  with  a  gracious, 
ceremonial  air.  But  even  Gail's  hunger  rebelled,  and 
he  shook  his  head.  Then,  still  holding  him,  the  Siwash 
produced  a  side  of  dried  salmon,  hard  as  mahogany, 
crusted  with  white  blow-fly  eggs.  This  he  tore  with  his 
teeth,  grinning  and  smacking  his  withered  lips,  and  was 
handing  it  to  Gail,  when  the  dull  gut  window  pane  was 
darkened  by  a  shadow.  Gail  held  his  breath.  There 
was  a  sound  on  the  threshold.  The  thong  creaked  and 
strained.  The  door  opened  with  a  wrench. 

She  was  standing  there,  wide-mouthed;  with  a  gaze 
at  once  shrinking  and  triumphant. 

TV 

"Clara!" 

Breathless,  they  held  themselves  in  check. 

Then  Gail  plunged  forward,  riven  by  dismay,  and  an 
overwhelming,  unspeakable  relief. 

Clara  raised  an  arm,  and  at  last  found  speech. 

"  You  should  have  told  me  through  the  tent,  if  you 
knew  me  then,"  she  said,  ref  astening  the  door.  "  You 
should  have  trusted  me,  after  you  heard  I  stood  with 
John.  I  owned  Phil  Lindsey  once,  and  could  have 
choked  his  mouth  about  the  strong-box.  We  could 
have  crossed  the  river  with  those  papers  then.  It  was 
too  late  when  I  saw  you  in  the  mirror." 

"  Don't  —  don't    reproach    me."     Gail's    head    fell. 


CLARA  279 

"  Too  much  was  at  stake  to  risk.  Let  me  explain  —  I 
wasn't  sure — " 

"  Of  me?  .  .  .  I  don't  reproach  you."  She  cast  him 
an  assuring  smile.  "  Never,  Gail.  I  think  I  under- 
stand." 

Their  eyes  met.  But  all  the  wonder  and  surmise 
that  crowded  upon  their  brains,  stirred  by  the  interven- 
ing months,  could  not  blot  the  more  vivid  issue  of  their 
present  peril. 

"  What's  their  delay  in  pulling  out  for  Valdez  ?  " 
He  looked  up.  "  Tomorrow'll  be  too  late  for  us  to 
reach  John,  even  if  Lamar's  men  don't  find  us." 

How  her  alert  gaze  had  widened,  the  tawny  somno- 
lence of  her  pupils,  pinpoints  no  longer,  steadied !  Her 
alluring  pallor  aboard  the  Seward,  the  sharpness  of 
feature,  had  given  way  to  the  soft  tan  of  health,  a  calm 
poise,  a  maturer  fulness.  She,  like  Tom  and  himself, 
had  been  stimulated  in  flesh  and  spirit  by  the  ordeals 
of  the  land ;  she  had  lost  the  abstraction  and  impulsive- 
ness that  in  their  first  communion  had  almost  jeop- 
ardised her  self-mastery.  How  could  he  ever  have 
compared  her  with  the  fragile  Martha !  A  new  firm- 
ness in  her  straight  mouth,  one  quizzical  line  that 
slanted  between  her  brows,  attested  how  the  victory  in 
her  inner  struggles  had  changed  her,  had  reached  deep 
into  her  soul. 

"  They  won't  start  yet  for  Valdez,"  she  broke  the 
silence.  "  They've  lost  three  horses,  and  couldn't  pull 
out  till  tomorrow.  Besides,  John  and  the  boys  have 
no  rafts  to  come  over  on,  and  Charley  says  they 
wouldn't  build  them  before  hearing  from  you.  In  the 
row,  he  let  slip  about  the  Judge's  letter."  Her  voice 
hardened. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  break,"  said  Gail  wildly,  ran- 


280       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

kling  at  that  recollection,  "to  cross  somehow,  when  you 
came." 

"  Don't,  Gail  —  don't  yet.  I  knew  you'd  take  any 
cha-nce.  That's  why  I  did,  too,  and  found  you.  Vine- 
gar Bill's  with  them,  and  swears  he  saw  you  hide  in  the 
brush.  They're  patrolling  the  river  for  miles  up  and 
down.  You'd  sure  be  caught,  and  they've  sworn  to 
kill,  sooner  than  let  you  cross  it." 

Gail's  look  had  wandered  to  her  wrists.  He  saw  two 
red  scars  circling  them.  He  seized  one ;  the  blood  had 
dried  there. 

His  gorge  mounted  to  bursting.  "  The  fiend ! "  he 
choked. 

"  It  was  only  Charley's  orders,"  she  panted.  "  He'll 
have  enough  yet  to  suffer  for.  The  men  tied  me  to  a 
saw-horse  in  the  bunk-tent.  I  kicked  a  knife  toward  me, 
and  used  it  in  my  teeth.  That  made  the  gash." 

"  It  was  your  risk  coming  here,"  averred  Gail,  with 
a  hot  awe.  "  Your  life's  as  worthless  as  mine,  to  be 
found  with  me." 

"  I  know.  But  where  better,  Gabriel,  than  with  you 
—  I've  thought  from  that  first  instant  on  the  steamer. 
*  The  one  man  to  help  me  solve  — '  I  said  then.  The 
one  being  who  might  make  me  see  clearer,  save  me 
from  Charley  and  his  despoiling.  You  and  the  coun- 
try have;  faith  in  you  has  carried  me  through  every- 
thing." 

Her  old  spell  was  overpowering.  All  Gail's  fibres 
clamoured  to  possess  her.  She  did  not  stand  supine. 
His  arms  folded  around  her.  Their  bodies  met  in  a 
long,  warm  embrace.  Their  lips  touched.  He  smoothed 
her  hair  from  his  eyes. 

The  thunder  of  his  heart  obliterated  the  begrimed 


CLARA  281 

cabin,  and  for  a  delectable,  giddy  space  they  seemed  to 
stand  alone,  away  upon  some  far  windy  tundra. 

"  And  I  almost  upset  the  apple-cart,"  she  murmured, 
with  a  flash  of  her  old  banter,  "  by  showing  how  much 
I  liked  you  on  that  voyage." 

"  You  loved  from  the  first?  It  was  I  — I,"  he 
murmured ;  then,  with  sudden  courage,  "  Clara ! "  and 
released  her,  as  if  under  a  twinge  of  conscience. 

"  The  night  in  my  stateroom  you  had  a  right  to  mis- 
take. .  .  ." 

"  No,"  said  Gail,  gravely.  "  I  have  no  rights  at  all 
with  you.  I'm  not  free.  I'm  still  married.  I'd  — 
forgotten." 

At  first  hardly  grasping  his  meaning,  she  gave  an 
adventurous  laugh,  averting  her  head  also.  Then  he 
saw  her  quiver,  dynamically,  with  passion  opposing  her 
self-control.  She  recovered  herself  slowly,  shrinking 
from  him. 

"  Don't  say  forgotten.  .  .  .  Because  Fve  trusted.  ..." 

He  gulped.     "  It's  a  long  story,  Clara." 

She  lifted  a  hand  to  her  forehead,  as  if  against  a 
glare. 

"  Wait.  Don't  tell  me  here,"  she  whispered  in  a 
moment,  faintly,  yet  with  the  dominant  decision  he  re- 
membered. "  After  this  show-down,  if  we're  both  hon- 
est, you  must  be  free  some  day.  If  not,  then  it's  to 
be  — "  her  tone  thickened,  "  my  forgetting.  ...  If 
I  can't  give  you  my  faith  now,  I  never  will.  ...  So 
shall  I?" 

"  You  can."     Gail's  teeth  set. 

"  Then  what  odds,  if  we  have  the  courage  of  our  love 
and  our  beliefs  ?  " 

She   raised  her   moist   eyes   and   saw  that  his   high 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

cheeks  were  scarlet.  Yet  against  his  warm  breath,  not 
the  smallest  muscle  of  her  solemn  countenance  stirred. 
Their  gaze  hung  entwined,  shyly  glad,  world-effacing. 
And  as  Gail  heard  her  heart-beats  mount,  it  shamed 
him  to  think  how  more  dire  the  battle  in  her  bosom 
might  be  beside  that  in  his  own. 

"  We'll  try  the  river  tonight,"  he  ripped  out  all  at 
once. 

"  Yes,  the  chances  are  best  at  dark,"  she  agreed,  with 
a  practical  intensity.  "  There  still  may  be  time  enough 
to  warn  John  and  the  boys.  At  least  we'll  be  together 
if  they  shoot." 

"  If  I  don't  get  over  to  warn  them  —  well,  life  would 
be  hopeless,"  confessed  Gail,  with  a  resolute  dejection. 
"All  I  want  of  it,  besides  you,  is  to  save  those  boys 
their  stake,  prove  that  way  my  right  to  living  in  this 
world."  He  broke  off,  hoarsely,  transported  by  a  keen 
memory  of  Snowden,  quelled  by  a  tremulous  ardour. 
"Then —  you  —  forever.  .  .  ." 

The  silence  became  terrible  to  both,  in  the  pressure 
for  speech  of  those  innumerable  avowals,  which  the  stern 
spirit  of  each  reserved  as  vain,  or  sentimental;  as  fleet- 
ing as  the  moments  that  remained  to  them,  thus  alone. 


The  squalid  cabin,  their  suspended  danger,  still  dis- 
solved around  them.  Attalota,  mumbling,  had  been 
brewing  the  dry  stems  mixed  with  willow  leaves  that 
meant  "  tea "  to  him.  He  lifted  the  cracked  teapot, 
boiling  from  the  stove,  and  poured  its  sallow  stream  into 
three  clean  graniteware  cups  that  he  had  set  out  upon 
the  bench.  Then  from  a  baking-powder  tin  on  the 
shelf  overhead,  he  dumped  four  lumps  of  sugar;  and 
his  call  of  their  attention  to  this  unheard-of  luxury 


CLARA 

(Vinegar  Bill's  pay  for  hire  in  Lamar's  grub)  broke 
reality  upon  their  senses.  Attalota  made  a  guttural 
sound  in  his  throat,  popped  one  of  the  lumps  into  his 
mouth  with  a  roguish  grimace,  and,  dropping  the  oth- 
ers into  the  cups,  handed  two  of  them  to  Gail  and 
Clara  with  an  impressive  bow. 

Gail  mechanically  took  his;  and  as  soon  as  its  steam 
touched  his  nostrils,  he  gulped  it  down  in  one  swallow, 
so  that  the  spoon  fell  on  the  dirt.  Clara,  without 
shifting  her  glance  from  him,  motioned  back  the  old 
man,  felt  for  the  "  makes  "  in  her  black  denim  skirt, 
rolled  a  wheat-paper  cigarette,  and,  lighting  it,  took 
a  deep,  inhaling  breath. 

"  Gabriel,  I  know  what  hell  is,"  she  broke  out.  "  My 
life  these  last  months.  But  I  wouldn't  have  missed 
them  for  riches.  And  not  only  for  meeting  John  and 
you.  I  was  mad,  a  fool,  to  come  North.  But  it's 
made  a  woman  of  me.  Alaska's  been  the  test  of  every- 
thing, as  I  hoped  —  of  my  love  for  Charley,  my  con- 
science toward  the  dry-farmers." 

Gail's  bosom  heaved.  His  eyes  were  still  on  the 
ground,  upon  his  cup  and  spoon  there.  He  could  not 
speak. 

"  I  told  you  there  at  sea  I  thought  their  claim  was 
right  and  just,  though  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  break 
with  a  man  like  Charley,  who  loved  me  as  I  thought  I 
loved  him.  I'd  reasoned  that  out  before  I  came  here, 
saw  them,  heard  everything.  But  I  never  knew  it  was 
John,  my  brother,  that  I'd  the  same  as  deserted,  who 
led  the  dry-farmers,  till  one  day  when  I  was  hunting 
across  the  river  with  Nacosta.  Charley  kept  his  name 
from  me.  But  somehow  John  knew  I  was  here,  and  was 
holding  off  for  my  sake.  It  was  terrible  for  him.  .  .  . 
We  met  then  —  after  five  years."  She  paused,  quak- 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

ing  in  the  white  sweater  she  wore.  "  But  not  so 
much  John's  forgiveness,  nor  his  being  my  brother,  or 
what  he  told  me  of  his  partners'  struggle  with  bribes 
and  corruption,  or  the  ways  of  our  company,  finally 
turned  me  against  Charley.  It  was  the  man  himself, 
how  he  used  to  talk  after  my  eyes  were  opened,  his  scorn 
for  this  land  and  its  pioneers,  his  slavery  to  big  money 
and  its  cruelty  toward  the  freedom  and  the  thirsts  God 
and  the  nation  give  men  in  the  North  —  the  one  chance 
left  in  the  world  for  whitemen,  in  this  last,  open  realm 
of  ours.  .  .  .  You  heard  him  in  the  tent.  It's  sicken- 
ing. Why,  his  pity  for  the  boys  is  worse  than  blas- 
phemy. And  because  what  he  says  is  all  so  true.  He's 
a  spider,  in  some  huge  suffocating  web.  Damn  his 
vampire  '  development ' !  " 

Gail  was  clasping  and  unclasping  his  hands.  "  The 
tent  swayed,  Clara,"  he  -muttered.  "  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  saying  or  doing  there."  An  image  of  the 
red  cave-man  in  his  chair,  defying  life  and  the  future, 
recurred  to  Gail,  even  now  all  but  blotting  her  presence 
for  the  instant. 

"  And  it  was  only  partly  that,  too,  but  it  first  showed 
me  I  couldn't  have  really  loved  him,  nerved  me  to  break 
with  him,"  she  went  on,  indomitable.  "  It  was  chiefly 
a  feeling  in  this  dumb  waste  itself  —  in  the  air,  the 
snow,  the  peaks  —  of  something  rich  and  beautiful,  per- 
petual and  happy,  that  gets  into  your  blood,  that  cries 
for  music  to  sing  of  it,  for  deeds  to  possess  it  by,  for 
yourself  —  your  own  livelihood." 

"And  children!"  Gail  interjected,  gently. 

"  I  was  made  for  this  land,"  she  continued,  unhear- 
ing.  "  But  it's  given  me  a  new  birth,  in  heart  and 
body.  .  .  .  Don't  think  I'm  crazy.  But  it's  not 
wholly  my  love  for  you  and  John  that  forced  me  to  de- 


CLARA  285 

cide,  nor  all  my  quitting  Charley  and  our  danger,  that 
makes  me  talk  like  this.  .  .  .  Did  you  see  the  desperate 
faces,  the  jealous  servility,  of  those  poor  brutes  from 
Seattle  he  has  working  for  him?  Oh,  they've  been 
pathetic !  And  his  gang  made  them  so  —  crooks,  I 
guess  from  their  talk,  and  worse." 

Gail  strove  to  speak  again. 

"  I  know  it's  a  lot  to  turn  against  a  strong  man  that 
you've  pledged  any  affection  to.  And  Charley's  so 
plausible,  and  fair  to  these  slaves  of  his.  He's  a  *  good  ' 
capitalist.  But  between  this  Alaska  and  a  land  en- 
slaved, between  one's  own  blood  and  a  husband  like  him, 
I  think  I've  judged  and  chosen  right.  ...  I  say  it's 
wickeder  to  kill  men's  dreams,  to  buy  and  bribe  their 
souls,"  her  voice  grew  stronger,  defiant,  as  she  raised 
her  head  and  squared  her  breast,  "  than  even  to  de- 
grade your  body.  That's  strong  and  pure  enough,  for 
all  one's  future  and  this  country's,  if  it  can  live  at  all 
here." 

Gail  leaped  to  her  with  an  exclamation,  a  wild  ges- 
ture. Again  he  seized  her  in  his  arms.  Exquisite 
waves  thrilled  his  heart,  but  now  their  lips  did  not 
touch.  .  .  .  Back  to  them,  Attalota  went  on  wiping  the 
tea  cups  without  turning.  And  then  Clara's  eyes  filled, 
inflaming  yet  also  sanctifying  the  exultant  pause. 

"  It's  an  old  and  common  story  —  mine,"  she  whis- 
pered at  length.  "  I  don't  need  to  tell  you.  After 
father  died  in  the  iron-works,  and  mother  disappeared, 
my  head  got  turned,  and  I  ran  away  from  school  there 
in  Michigan,  to  find  John,  who  had  gone  out  to  King- 
dom, Idaho.  Then  when  he  went  North  in  the  '98  rush 
I  never  wrote  him,  nor  tried  to  see  him  when  he  came 
back  to  Kingdom  for  the  Chyta  Company.  There  were 
three  of  us  Hartlines,  and  though  Martha  was  the  least 


286       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

fit  to  shift  for  herself,  she'd  left  home  first  and  come 
out  to  the  Coast.  ..." 

"M-m-artha!" 

He    had    stiffened.     The    word    choked    him.  .  .  . 
Then,  breaking  the  hush,  Clara's  hesitant  response: 

"  Yes.  ...  A  man  led  her  astray." 

Their  first  words  on  the  Seward  sparked  out  far  back 
in  Gail's  memory.  A  fury  of  self-castigation  seized 
him. 

"  The  man  you  were  looking  for  on  the  boat?  .... 
To  —  kill  —  I  hope." 

"  He  treated  her  square.     He  really  loved  her." 

"  Her  name  was  Hartline?  " 

"  Of  course  it  was.  Yet  she  hadn't  the  courage, 
poor  thing  —  she  never  had  much  —  to  use  it  when  she 
wrote.  And  when  a  woman  has  to  change  her  name  — " 

"Called  herself,  'Harlow'?"  .... 

"  Y-y-yes.  .  .  .  But  you're  hurting  me,  jerking 
so.  ...  Gail!  Gdbnel\\  .  .  .  .  " 

Clara,  understanding  as  well,  wrenched  herself  madly 
from  his  arms. 

VI 

Still  standing,  she  was  finally  the  first  to  speak. 

But  Gail,  hunched  upon  the  bench,  had  been  the  first 
to  raise  a  challenging  head  from  his  hands;  to  fling 
against  the  raw  remorse,  into  the  ache  and  tragedy  that 
tore  him  out  of  the  cancelled,  bitter  years,  the  potent 
honesty  of  their  avowed  love;  thus  to  defy  present  and 
future;  to  snap  the  apocalyptic  silence  of  those  slow, 
swelling  moments,  through  which,  face  to  face,  they 
grasped  within  a  stifling  haze  of  sorrow,  hate,  and  love, 
the  miracle  of  three  lives  so  fatefully  interwoven. 


CLARA  287 

Never  taking  the  yellow  somnolent  blaze  of  her  eyes 
from  Gail,  Clara,  always  so  candid,  retorted: 

"  Don't  confess  about  this,  either.  It's  enough  — 
to  know.  .  .  ."  Her  voice  dank,  tender.  "  Because 
we  love  now.  .  .  ." 

Ever  it  was  she  who  cast  the  die  of  his  existence! 

"  I'd  had  some  sort  of  hunch,  by  instinct,  clairvoy- 
ance maybe,"  she  breathed.  "  Recollect  the  start  you 
gave  me  right  off  in  my  stateroom?  But  when  Martha 
wrote,  she  never  mentioned  your  name,  hardly  described 
you." 

"  She  told  you  about,"  Gail  whispered,  "  how  I  be- 
trayed her?  " 

"  The  lime-kilns,"  Clara  nodded  low.  "  But  she  said 
you  did  well  by  her,  better  than  most  men  in  the  West 
would  have,  the  best  you  could.  And  I  was  sure  of 
that.  Even  when  she  wrote  how  '  Nick '  someone 
bought  her  off,  till  she  had  to  go  biscuit-shooting,  first 
in  Vancouver." 

Her  thoughts  were  racing  backward  through  the 
heart-galling  search.  Half-aghast,  she  saw  how  the 
strength  of  her  present  love  dimmed  the  lost  vindictive- 
ness. 

"Yes,  Pelcher,  damn  him!" 

"  But  you  did  love  her.  I  was  convinced  of  that. 
It  justified.  .  .  .  Love  covers  everything,  wipes  out  all 
else." 

"  But  it  ought  to  be  —  sacrifice."  His  jaw  cracked. 
"And  I've  made  none." 

"  That's  only  a  part.  Love's  power  is  the  touch- 
stone—  to  kill  as  well  as  to  forgo.  ...  As  it's  killed 
my  hate  of  you." 

"But  I   told   you —  I   can't   fulfil—"     Doggedly, 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

with  his  old  self-abasement,  he  argued  against  his  pas-, 
sion,  so  augmenting  it. 

"  Has  the  time  come,  dear?  Haven't  we  pledged  our 
trust  for  all  the  future?  The  great  test,  I  tell  you, 
can't  end  except  in  death." 

On  a  sudden  pause,  their  voices  echoed  around  them, 
strangely  hollow.  They  felt  as  if  their  entwined  gaze 
were  drowning  them. 

"I  —  I  can't  reach  you,"  stammered  Gail.  "  I 
see  everything  in  life  so  differently.  .  .  .  And  first  — " 
On  his  lips  was  "  parenthood."  Shyly,  he  could  not 
begin  that  prime  and  greater  revelation  in  her  presence 
now. 

"  Hark!  "  she  started.     "  Was  that  a  shot?  » 

Each  had  caught  a  faint,  far  report.  Their  look 
flinched,  veered  apart,  not  to  unite  again  as  it  had 
been. 

"  No,"  Clara  answered  her  own  question.  "  Not 
loud  enough  for  any  of  Charley's  guns.  Nacosta's 
kids  have  a  .22." 

They  let  out  their  breaths.  But  shot  or  no,  it  was 
as  if  some  alien  arrow  had  shattered  the  crystal  castle 
of  their  dreams. 

"  Whatever  we  think  or  feel,"  Gail's  voice  awoke, 
deep  but  very  tender,  "  the  next  hours  fix  us,  for  all 
time,  girl.  If  one  or  both  don't  get  out  alive,  noth- 
ing matters.  But  if  we  do,  together  or  separated — " 

"  The  sacrifice  comes  there,"  she  interrupted. 

"  We  couldn't  live  together  —  yet?  " 

Clara  shook  her  head.  "  I'd  like  to  say,  «  Not  till 
you've  gone  the  limit  to  get  free.'  "  Gail  read  in  her 
quick  glance  the  curiosity  that  she  restrained  so 
easily.  "  But  that  wouldn't  be  true  with  a  woman 
like  me,  and  a  love  like  ours.  So  let's  be  honest  with 


CLARA  389 

ourselves."  He  caught  the  twinkle  in  her  eyes.  "  Let's 
call  the  reason  sheer  poverty."  Her  tongue  was  in 
one  cheek.  "  Well,  if  we  do  win  Torlina,  it  may  be 
years  before  there's  any  stake.  Even  we  can't  live  on 
snow-balls  up  here." 

"  A  year,  then  ?  "  he  urged,  hotly. 

"  Or  less.  There's  a  new  gold  strike,"  she  added, 
alert,  "  on  Yanaga  River,  in  western  Alaska,  very  far 
from  here,  northwest  of  the  Kuskokwim.  One  outfit 
starved  getting  out  this  spring.  The  news  just  came 
from  Valdez  —  four-foot  paystreaks,  bedrock  only 
eight  down,  and  as  rich  on  the  benches."  Her  face 
gleamed  with  the  vision,  that  resistless  infection  of  the 
land. 

"  Placer  gold,  then.  That's  our  stake.  Copper's 
no  poor  man's  proposition,  with  the  capital  it  takes  in 
this  country." 

"  Hit  for  the  Yanaga,  Gail.  Write  me  to  Kingdom. 
And  if  John  fails,  or  the  law  makes  monkeys  of  us  any 
more,  I'll  join  you  there.  We'd  revel  in  it." 

« Yes  —  gold,"  pondered  Gail.  "It's  bread.  At 
the  heart  of  everything,  even  of  our  love.  The  source 
of  all  things,  even  of  the  dreams  and  images  that 
live  on  after  us."  (Where  before  had  he  heard  those 
words?)  "I've  learned  that  from  the  North;  that, 
and  how  to  fight  for  and  win  them."  Again  his 
thoughts  rushed  back  to  Snowden.  "  That  mountain- 
climber,  you  remember?  He  taught  me  chiefly." 

"  Robert  Snowden?     He  got  to  the  top?  " 

"  No.     I  did.     Alone." 

She  winced,  yet  only  to  raise  her  features  to  his, 
open-mouthed  with  admiration,  irradiated  by  a  sad,  dis- 
cerning light. 

"  Oh  —  poor  boy !  "     All  her  strong  heart  was   in 


290       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

the  cry.  "  And  I  thought  he  was  crazy,  with  all  he 
tried  to  tell  about  his  itch  for  cliffs  and  glaciers." 

"  It  was  the  thought  of  you,  your  inspiration,  the 
touch  of  your  unseen  hands,  Clara,"  Gail  cried,  "  that 
carried  me  through  the  splendour  and  the  danger  of  that 
climb.  You  led  me  to  victory  on  Lincoln,  as  you  shall 
in  the  life  before  us." 

"  Sh  —  listen !  "  she  broke  in  again ;  but  Gail  went 
on  unheeding,  transported, 

"  Bob  Snowden  was  trying  to  win  life  and  the  future, 
as  we  are,  like  John  and  the  boys.  And  their  fight 
would  be  his  fight  here,  for  the  ends  that  your  Charley 
blocks.  I'm  with  you  now  because  of  Bob.  It  was  he 
showed  me  the  undying  life  in  everyone,  and  always  the 
war  to  gain  it.  We're  here  on  earth  to  fight  for  more 
than  our  poor,  passing  lives.  Every  man  has  an  eter- 
nity he  must  seize  for  himself.  Mine  — "  he  broke  off. 
"  I'll  tell  you  the  rest  — " 

"  I  understand,  Gail,  every  word." 

They  had  sprung  to  their  feet,  braced  and  rigid. 

There  arose  once  more  to  Gail's  lips  the  lessons  of 
his  piteous  triumph  on  Mt.  Lincoln;  the  story  of  his 
blighted  life  with  Lena,  of  that  yearning  for  a  son 
which  marked  him  from  his  fellows ;  how  Clara  should 
fulfil  it;  its  despair  in  the  lodging-house,  his  vow  to 
study  the  voids  and  aches  in  human  souls  as  uplifting 
Nature  bared  them  —  all,  summed  in  the  creed  of 
Charity  or  Death. 

But  he  voiced  no  word  of  this.  In  the  tense,  gallop- 
ing seconds  of  their  harking,  it  flashed  through  Gail: 
"Must  I  be  dumb  —  and  wisely,  justly  —  forever?" 
He  had  not  attained  his  goal.  Not  yet  had  the  bridge 
of  fruition  been  cast  out  across  the  void  of  his  own 
soul.  The  keystone  still  was  lacking. 


CLARA  291 

A  volley  of  shots  had  blared  out  through  the  quiet 
sunlight  of  noon,  in  the  direction  of  the  Atna. 

vn 

Back  in  Gail's  head  sounded  the  same  soothing  click 
as  when  he  had  saved  Bob  under  the  big  cornice  on  Mt. 
Lincoln.  He  heard  a  familiar  humming,  like  a  wheel 
revolving  into  invisibility,  which  slightly,  welcomely, 
dulled  his  senses.  A  scarlet  spot  stained  Clara's  pale 
cheeks.  Then  the  perilous  world  closed  in  upon  their 
transitory  idyll. 

"  John's  across !  "  shouted  Gail. 

"  To  the  boys !  "  Clara  panted,  cougar-like. 

She  flung  open  the  cabin  door,  upon  the  frowsy  lean- 
tos  and  ruinous  shacks.  Beyond,  the  wailing  of  dogs 
and  shouts  of  savages  mingled  with  the  smoke  and 
crackle  of  a  battle  in  full  blast. 

Gail  felt  an  acid  tightening  across  his  ribs,  stupefy- 
ing for  an  instant.  It  seemed  that  they  stood  for  an 
age  in  that  doorway,  calm  and  numb  in  the  inert  and 
blinding  sunlight.  But  action,  as  with  a  fierce  gal- 
vanism, shocked  their  taut  nerves  and  sinews.  With 
an  oath,  Clara  darted  back  into  the  cabin,  returning 
with  one  of  Attalota's  curved  knives.  They  left  him 
gaping,  ashen,  a  limp  wet  rag  in  his  hand. 

They  circled  the  uproar,  toward  the  Atna.  Gail 
heard  Clara  running  in  his  wake.  He  was  wondering 
how  the  dry-farmers,  armed  so  helplessly,  could  have 
crossed  the  river  and  be  firing  so  much.  Surely  John 
had  attacked  the  guard  along  shore,  and  was  forcing 
them  back.  Unaware  of  having  drawn  it,  Gail  had 
Blackwood's  gun  cocked  in  his  hands.  Bullets  whipped 
overhead  with  a  waspish  sighing,  yet  louder  than  the 
volleys. 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

The  shore  willows  darkened  through  the  whitish 
smoke,  and  Gail's  heart  bounded,  as  he  saw  the  crooked 
line  of  men  advancing  from  the  brush;  their  beloved, 
distorted  faces:  the  bearded  Hartline,  hulking  Ireson 
furiously  chewing  tobacco,  young  Luke,  old  Mease 
wearing  his  canvas  gloves  —  all  blurs,  except  for  some 
detail  like  the  leer  of  Tony's  harelip,  or  Tom's  cruel 
eyes,  as  he  inevitably  did  lead  them  in  his  yellow  boots 
and  red  bandanna.  And  each  held  a  shooting  iron! 
They  greeted  Gail  with  a  steadying  shout  of  relief  and 
incitation. 

Next,  Tom  was  at  his  side.  Each  was  blazing  away. 
Tom's  voice  rose  weak  and  strident,  as  if  out  of  a 
dream.  He  told  how  John  had  begun  to  build  rafts 
after  giving  up  the  hunt  for  Blackwood  —  this  on  a 
"  hujich  "  of  Luke's  —  had  worked  them  like  convicts  all 
night.  They  had  crossed  and  landed  undiscovered, 
until  Lamar's  look-out  on  shore  had  mistaken  John  for 
him,  Gail.  Ten  of  them,  ambushed  separately  and  un- 
aware of  the  dry-farmers'  numbers,  John  had  overpow- 
ered and  disarmed. 

Slowly  they  advanced  into  the  roaring  haze,  clearing 
the  settlement  to  the  left,  toward  Attalota's  cabin. 
Figures  were  running  to  cover  behind  it,  firing  as  they 
scurried.  John  was  at  Gail's  right,  and  beyond,  Clara. 
Gail  thrust  the  Judge's  letter  into  his  leader's  hand, 
shouting  faintly,  "  Read  her !  It's  the  skunk's  own 
noose.  Torlina's  ours ! "  And  John  grabbed  the 
paper  with  a  nod  of  mingled  venom  and  rejoicing  that 
ever  after  supplanted  Gail's  memory  of  his  dogged  re- 
serve. A  pasty-faced  man  with  side-whiskers,  who 
had  tried  to  flank  them,  fell  close  by  at  a  shot  from 
McConighy.  Farther,  Lindsey,  without  his  eyeglasses. 

The  dry- farmers  were  driving  them!     The  choking 


CLARA 

dust  and  powder  were  delicious  to  Gail's  nostrils, 
ecstatic  in  his  eyes  were  the  distorted  sweating  faces, 
to  his  ears  the  savage  yelling  of  the  Indians,  discharg- 
ing their  pistols  into  the  air  at  the  edge  of  the  con- 
flict, to  goad  it  on.  .  .  .  Luke  whipped  past  him. 
There  was  a  rush  of  shapes  out  from  behind  the  old 
man's  cabin,  where  Lamar's  packers  had  gathered,  rein- 
forcing the  defeated.  The  shots  redoubled.  A  thump 
reverberated  in  front  of  Gail.  Luke  had  fallen,  a  hand 
pressed  to  his  throat.  He  raised  his  humid,  docile  eyes 
to  Gail,  with  a  moan  that  stabbed. 

A  scarlet  curtain  fell  across  Gail's  pupils.  A 
myriad  glistening  stars  pricked  them.  A  fiendish,  de- 
stroying lust  flared  through  him.  He  gloried  in  his 
rage.  He  had  saved  Tom  through  charity:  that  had 
been  its  meed.  He  thirsted  now  for  the  delirious  joy 
of  killing.  .  .  . 

Out  of  a  rift  in  the  smoke,  he  spotted  a  red-faced, 
burly  figure  clad  in  blue  —  Lamar.  Clara  was  facing 
him,  raised  knife  to  drawn  revolver.  Her  black  skirt 
hung  tattered  by  bullets.  But  she  did  not  strike;  in- 
stead, sighting  Gail,  she  yielded  her  place  to  him,  and 
darted  aside,  into  the  cabin  of  their  avowals,  with  a 
half-inarticulate  cry  of  triumph.  Lamar  had  turned 
tail,  escaping.  With  a  yell,  Gail  plunged  after  him,  as 
he  fired  over  a  shoulder.  .  .  .  The  creature  ran,  like  a 
huge,  shivering  rat  .  .  .  ran  and  ran.  .  .  . 

Then  Gail  was  far  from  the  uproar,  drawing  ever 
closer  to  his  quarry.  From  a  poplar  grove,  they 
splashed  through  the  dead,  luxuriant  grass  of  a  slue, 
nearing  the  paneled  benches  at  the  far  end  of  the  flat. 
And  Gail's  ravening  heart  was  now  strangely  quiet. 

At  the  edge  of  a  spruce  clump,  Lamar  faced  about, 
like  a  bear  at  bay.  Shots  broke  out  behind.  One 


294       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

sucked  and  sang  through  Gail's  hair.  He  saw  two 
men  floundering  across  the  patch  of  swamp,  in  pursuit. 
Lamar  made  as  if  to  throw  up  his  arms,  but  did  not. 
He  had  lost  or  dropped  his  gun.  His  coarse  lips 
opened.  He  bellowed  defiant  blasphemies.  Gail  heard 
dimly,  watching  him  stoop  into  the  grass,  lift  and  level 
his  automatic.  .  .  .  Gail  fired  first.  .  .  .  The  creature 
toppled  backward. 

A  dark  trickle  of  blood  was  oozing  from  the  middle 
of  his  forehead.  He  lay  on  his  back,  his  livid  features, 
once  so  shrewd,  now  imbecile  —  flabby  ....  toad- 
like. 

Gail  plunged  on  toward  the  paneled  benches,  intoxi- 
cated. He  marked  the  pair  that  followed  gather  about 
the  corpse.  They  lifted  its  legs,  fat  under  their 
puttees. 

High  in  the  dazzling,  blue-white  ether,  an  eagle  was 
swinging  above  the  roseate  peaks  and  shining  glaciers. 
A  sea-gull  breasted  against  a  scarf  of  cloud  that  en- 
wrapped the  coronet,  of  Spirit  Mountain  down  the 
Atna.  Nearby,  the  aspen  leaves  were  veined  with  red 
and  yellow,  like  the  flesh  in  old  men's  cheeks.  Gail  was 
at  the  foot  of  a  clay  escarpment.  Climbing,  his  fingers 
dug  into  the  dry  silt.  .  .  . 

Far  up  at  last,  darkness  swept  through  his  swooning, 
satiated  being,  and  he  sank  upon  the  soft  forest  floor. 


BOOK  FOUR 


CHAPTER  XIV 
DICK  TRUEBLOOD 


FOR  two  days,  since  Gail  had  raised  his  head  into  the 
twilight  of  an  immense  spruce  forest,  he  had  wandered 
dazed  with  hunger,  exhausted,  among  densely  wooded 
scarps,  searching  for  the  Valdez  trail,  to  follow  Clara 
and  his  partners.  Yet  his  mind  and  body  had  awak- 
ened keen;  he  had  the  sense  of  having  grasped  an  im- 
mortal gain,  of  having  trodden  spheres  beneath  him,  in 
which  he  had  reached  victory  on  Mt.  Lincoln.  He  felt 
even  that  light  impulsive  freedom,  the  detachment  from 
all  his  past,  which  had  marked  another  day  as  harrowing 
as  these  two  were  triumphant. 

Clara  could  not  be  else  than  safe  with  the  winning 
dry-farmers,  who  would  not  fail,  with  Lamar's  horses 
and  ahead  of  his  leaderless  gang,  to  reach  the  Valdez 
land-office,  and  restake  Torlina.  The  enemy  had 
surely  stayed  at  the  townsite.  For  that  reason  Gail 
had  not  tried  to  reach  it  alone,  and  now  was  lost. 

On  the  second  evening,  he  estimated  that  he  was  up- 
river,  far  north  of  the  place.  In  its  direction,  a  wide 
gorge  cut  him  off,  and  seemed  to  wall  existence  from  all 
the  world  of  his  last  three  months.  A  few  gaunt  rose- 
bushes with  shriveled  hips  sprang  from  a  velvety  car- 

295 


296       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

pet  of  green  and  clammy  joint-weed.  Dead,  tinder-dry 
under-limbs  of  the  gigantic  spruces  curved  over  one 
another  in  close  thatches.  A  slant  golden  light  in  their 
tops  told  him  that  it  was  again  afternoon.  Somewhere 
he  heard  a  late  robin  caroling. 

He  had  killed  a  man,  in  this  duty  decreed  by  his 
faith  in  life,  and  in  the  Youngest  World  and  its  sav- 
iours ;  and  for  the  cause  in  which  Bob  had  said  that  he 
would  feel  no  guilt.  Gail  did  not.  He  asked  himself: 
"  Is  this  owing  to  the  pervading  force  of  Bob's  ideas, 
or  to  my  own  hard  nature  ?  "  He  had  a  vague  sense 
of  superiority  to  abstract  sayings.  He  had  proved 
Snowden's  in  action,  and  Snowden  had  failed.  Equally 
Lamar's  batrachian  leer  in  death,  and  Luke's  boyish 
anguish,  faded  from  his  brain.  But  had  the  dream 
been  quite  enacted,  the  door  of  all  effort  and  self-denial 
closed?  Never  —  for  him  and  his  thirsts  in  the  North! 

There  was  his  compact  about  this  new  gold  stam- 
pede with  Clara.  It  was  her  command  for  them  to  meet 
in  the  Yanaga  fields.  There  was  their  utter  poverty, 
and  Lena:  might  she  not  divorce  him  for  desertion? 
Suppose  he  should  not  see  Clara  for  the  year  that  they 
had  allotted?  It  shamed  him  to  think  that,  treasuring 
her  memory  but  as  the  lodestar  that  it  had  so  long  been, 
he  might  endure  such  time;  that  the  sacrifice  in  this 
separation  could  be  chiefly  hers. 

Was  the  power  of  love  in  him,  as  she  had  defined  it, 
less  omnipotent  than  in  her?  Not  the  all-effacing  re- 
agent that  she  conceived?  Only  passion?  Was  he  too 
sure  of  her?  At  the  very  outset  in  Attalota's  cabin, 
his  body  had  enfolded  hers;  but  after  they  had  bared 
their  hearts,  and  death  was  breaking  around  them,  he 
had  flamed  only  with  his  instinctive  ideas  and  ideal 
purposes.  Always  he  placed  them  first,  higher,  above 


DICKTRUEBLOOD  297 

everything.  And  yet  her  compelling  image  had  in- 
spired his  privations  and  achievements,  warmed  his 
heart  to  the  aspirations  of  men,  given  his  eyes  a  new, 
palpitant  discernment.  Could  his  love  be  a  force  yet 
deeper,  more  self-concealing,  less  articulate  —  a  thing 
bound  up  with  the  silent  processes  of  Nature,  in  the 
slow  mill  of  the  revolving  spheres? 

Impetuously,  wearily,  he  faced  North.  The  heart 
of  Alaska  still  lay  poleward.  In  a  flood  of  renuncia- 
tion, he  groaned  under  his  breath.  He  knew  only  that 
the  trail  leading  to  the  Yukon  and  Kuskokwim  Rivers 
joined  and  followed  the  Atna  somewhere  northward  up 
the  valley. 

Immediately  he  came  upon  a  moose-track.  It  led  to 
the  edge  of  a  terrace  that  dropped  into  the  river-gorge, 
through  dusty  sage-brush.  In  the  open  now,  he  could 
see  the  fresh  coastal  snows  far  southward,  exhaling  a 
bluish  glow,  as  if  they  were  mountains  of  stained  glass. 
Against  their  brighter  bases,  spruces  a  league  away 
stood  forth  gall-green,  reticulated,  like  brush  around 
a  fire  at  night.  Gail  plugged  on,  quickly  tuckered, 
but  with  the  zest  of  a  pilgrim  proud  of  his  endurance, 
through  the  tangible,  quiet  sadness  of  the  deadening 
autumn.  In  the  east,  the  smooth,  smokeless  Unalita 
snow-fields  floated  pinkish  before  the  setting  sun,  out 
of  serene  pools  of  azure  light.  Entering  streams  cut 
the  far  river-scarps  into  arched,  even  panels,  faintly 
carmine  with  late  fireweed,  and  haunted  suddenly  by 
the  sub-bass  of  the  river.  Gail  descended  toward  its 
grey-green  flood,  among  burned  spruces  like  great  char- 
coal pencils,  which  lay  as  jack-straws  upon  the  crimson 
blueberry  leaves.  At  the  foot  of  a  pale  cliff  that  shoul- 
dered into  the  swirling  water,  he  sighted  a  Siwash  shack, 
amid  its  offal  and  belligerent  dogs. 


298       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

In  the  darkness,  fish  was  bubbling  in  an  old  kerosene 
can,  upon  live  coals  by  the  door.  Aching  with  hunger, 
Gail  pushed  inside.  A  ball  of  cotton,  floating  in  a 
saucer  of  salmon  oil,  lit  up  the  foul  interior,  where  a 
not  unclean  squaw  crouched  on  the  earth.  She  was 
frying  over  a  fire,  sobbing  into  her  pan. 


It  was  the  cabin  of  the  Indian  Nacosta.  The  woman 
was  Nannasnitnaw,  his  wife.  Soon  the  buck  came  in 
with  his  gun,  a  tall  young  Siwash  in  a  worn  fur  cap, 
with  thin,  handsome  upper  features,  but  a  brutal  jim- 
ber-jaw.  He  welcomed  Gail  sullenly,  incurious,  after 
the  way  of  his  race,  of  the  firing  down  river,  or  a  white- 
man's  larger  purposes  in  his  land.  They  drank  tea, 
ate  clammy  flap-jacks,  in  an  oppressed  silence,  broken 
by  Nannasnitnaw's  pain.  Once  Nacosta  truculently 
tossed  a  piece  of  salmon  toward  what  Gail  had  thought 
was  a  bundle  of  rags  under  the  bench.  "  Hi,  Tsa- 
kootna ! "  he  said,  and  the  dark,  withered  little  hand 
of  a  baby  girl  poked  out  of  the  rubbish.  She  wolfed 
the  morsel,  her  face  mercifully  hidden  under  long  and 
matted  hair.  Later  she  licked  all  their  plates.  Nacosta 
unrolled  a  caribou  skin  for  Gail,  tossed  him  a  grimy 
blanket,  and  as  he  curled  up  in  them  under  the  gilt 
ikon  by  the  door,  spat  on  the  light,  and  turned  in 
beside  his  squaw,  who  had  ceased  whimpering. 

Gail  fell  asleep  at  once ;  but  only  to  be  aroused,  after 
great  lapses  of  time,  by  a  rough  hand  pressed  on  his 
forehead,  and  the  Indian's  voice  in  his  ear. 

Gail  listened  to  his  complaint  about  Nannasnitnaw. 
A  widower,  Nacosta  had  married  her  five  months  ago. 
Last  snow  (winter)  she  had  lived  at  Taral  village,  with 
one  "  King  "  Oscar,  a  big  Norwegian.  A  week  back 


DICKTRUEBLOOD  299 

she  had  had  a  skmkai  (baby),  born  with  white  hair. 
Nacosta  had  taken  it  by  the  feet,  banged  its  head  on 
a  rock  and  dropped  it  into  the  river.  .  .  .  The  mur- 
derer made  a  convulsive  movement  under  his  blankets, 
a  sucking  between  his  teeth,  and  rolled  away  as  if  in 
self- j  us  tification. 

A  dizzy  spot  spread  under  Gail's  ribs.  He  felt 
wilted,  helpless,  as  if  he  had  been  struck.  He  slept 
no  more.  He  could  have  no  remorse  for  killing  Lamar, 
but  the  murder  of  this  bastard  stirred  him  to  an  angry 
sorrow,  made  the  palms  of  his  hands  wet  with  perspira- 
tion. Was  Nacosta's  hate  of  miscegenation  racial  and 
instinctive,  or  only  copied  from  whitemen  —  Indian 
imitativeness  ?  So  calm  a  cancelling  of  life  in  the  wil- 
derness that  craved  it!  Was  such  perversity,  as  much 
as  their  shiftiest  improvidence,  a  key  to  the  savages' 
diminution?  Between  them  and  Alaska,  and  Lena, 
Madge,  and  the  last  West,  Gail  seemed  to  perceive  a 
sardonic  bond,  rooted  in  some  like  contempt  for  life. 

A  pasty  glow  lit  the  broken  window.  Gail  heard  the 
steady  hum  of  rain  on  the  mud  roof ;  a  trickle  drummed 
on  the  bench,  splashed  into  his  face.  He  wanted  to 
quit  the  place  as  if  it  were  a  plague  spot.  He  threw 
off  the  blanket,  and  slipped  outside  into  the  sickly  dawn, 
where  the  dogs  lay  with  noses  curled  under  their  tails 
among  the  ashes  of  the  fire. 

He  took  two  salmon  from  the  drying  frame,  and 
started  North  up  the  river,  by  the  track  cut  into  the 
clay  wall.  He  traveled  all  day,  through  the  cold 
gloom,  from  gravel  bar  to  bar,  wading  slues,  over  the 
slimy  leaf-wrack,  in  feathery  bunch-grass  and  frost- 
nipped  willows.  At  the  early  dark,  as  he  was  gnawing 
his  last  sliver  of  fish,  he  sighted  telegraph  poles,  and 
met  the  trans-Alaskan  trail.  The  rain  stopped  in  a 


300       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

glinting  sky.  He  crossed  a  roaring  tributary  by  a 
wire  suspension  bridge,  passed  the  neat  whitewashed 
logs  of  the  Army  Signal  Corps  relay  station.  Beyond, 
a  larger  shack  was  surrounded  by  fields  of  stubble  and 
ploughed-up  turnips.  In  a  garden  of  dead  poppies 
behind  a  paling  fence,  a  grey,  tired-looking  man,  with 
an  egg-shaped  head,  gaunt  shoulders  and  rheumy  eyes, 
dressed  in  a  garment  like  a  linen  duster,  was  hanging 
khaki  shirts  on  a  clothes-line. 

"  North,"  answered  Gail,  laconically,  to  the  man's 
hail  and  question  whither  he  was  bound,  to  his  offer  of 
supper  and  a  bunk.  It  was  the  Government  Experi- 
mental Farm.  But  Clifford,  in  charge,  spoke  of  him- 
self as  a  "  f aunal  naturalist " ;  and  all  the  time  that 
he  fried  ham  on  the  cottage  stove  indoors,  where  the 
walls  were  hung  with  prints  of  animals  from  Smith- 
sonian reports,  with  sample  wheat-heads  and  Siberian 
rye  —  as  they  ate  jam  from  big  blue  cans  (government 
luxury  freighted  in  in  winter,  along  with  the  horse- 
hair sofa) — he  talked  about  raising  foxes  in  captiv- 
ity. 

In  his  jerky,  whining  voice,  as  they  washed  up,  and 
all  through  the  evening,  he  spoke  of  nothing  else. 
Foxes  obsessed  him.  He  referred  to  his  job  of  plant- 
ing the  grains  that  matured  earliest  in  order  to 
breed  hardier  strains  —  to  his  raising  rutabagas  for 
the  Siwashes  (which  they  refused  to  eat)  —  as  to  a 
fatuous  ordeal.  But  he  had  never  succeeded  with  his 
pets ;  his  foxes  always  died ;  all  scientists  had  given  up 
rearing  them,  called  it  impossible.  Gail,  dozing  on  the 
sofa  over  a  dog-eared  magazine,  could  not  make  out 
exactly  why.  Indeed,  to  conceal  the  reason  for  his 
failure,  seemed  to  be  part  of  the  man's  fanaticism. 
But  he  was  confident;  some  day  the  pups  would  live. 


DICK    TRUEBLOOD  301 

And  an  errant,  shifting  light  filled  the  sallow  brown 
eyes  under  his  creased  forehead,  as  he  talked  on,  of  how 
finally  he  would  shake  the  faunal  world  to  its  depths, 
receive  decorations,  revolutionise  the  fur-trade  —  until 
the  lamp  died,  and  they  groped  to  bed. 

An  icy  wind  pierced  the  chinks  of  the  loft  where  Gail 
lay  under  an  army  blanket  on  a  wire  cot.  The  smell 
and  crackle  of  bacon  drew  him  down  the  ladder.  Clif- 
ford was  holding  a  lantern  over  the  stove. 

"  Hiking  North,  eh  ?  "  he  said  at  breakfast,  as  if  by 
recalling  his  greeting  of  the  night  before  he  wished  to 
bridge  over  and  ignore  his  obsession.  "  But  you've  got 
no  grub."  The  faunal  naturalist  finished  his  cup  of 
coffee.  "  Look  here,"  he  said.  "  I  get  a  double  allow- 
ance —  for  the  wife  that  I  don't  want.  I  can't  sell  it. 
It's  Government  rations.  You  want  them  ? "  And 
before  Gail  could  thank  him,  he  went  on,  "  And  the 
sorrel  mare  that  I  haven't  the  hay  to  winter?  Take 
her,  too.  I'll  help  ye  pack.  Most  of  the  feed  on  the 
trail's  frozen,  but  she  ought  to  last  you  to  the  Siwashes 
at  Mentasta.  Kill  her  then." 

At  daylight,  among  the  rusted  harrows  and  harves- 
ters behind  the  house,  they  caught  the  shaggy  little 
beast,  fitted  on  her  blankets  and  saw-buck ;  sacked  flour 
and  rice,  fruit,  bacon,  took  pots  from  the  house ;  threw 
the  cinch  in  silence.  And  all  that  time,  Clifford  was 
casting  shy,  intent  glances  to  a  low  board  shack,  faced 
with  wire  netting,  in  a  corner  of  the  yard.  At  last, 
as  Gail  stood  halter  in  hand  at  the  narrow  garden  gate, 
the  man  paused  in  his  information  about  fords  and  cut- 
offs on  the  trail,  and  said  in  a  strained  whisper: 

"  You  want  to  see  them?     My  foxes?  " 

Gail  followed  him  back  to  the  little  house.  In  the 
acrid  odour  of  the  shy,  wild  creatures,  he  peered  through 


302       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

the  metal  mesh  upon  hard  soil  covered  with  the  tiny 
bones  of  ducks  and  ravens.  A  box  with  one  side  stove 
out  had  been  sunk  there,  leading  down  to  tunnels. 

But  no  foxes  appeared.  Clifford  kicked  at  the 
screen.  Still  none.  He  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  pluck- 
ing Gail  by  an  elbow,  led  him  back  to  the  mare.  Head 
down  there,  he  said  with  a  hushed  awe : 

"  I'll  tell  you  the  secret.  In  captivity,  the  mothers 
eat  their  young.  Under  conditions  that  are  artificial, 
the  law  of  perpetuity  provides  that  animal  life  tends  to 
extinction.  .  .  .  Applies  to  all  mammals  who  need  not 
fight  for  their  food  —  humans  as  well." 

Far  out  on  the  trail,  the  words  still  rang  through 
Gail's  ears.  At  the  first  of  them,  he  had  yanked  the 
mare's  halter,  squeezed  through  the  gate,  in  a  despair- 
ing ferment. 

Foxes,  Siwashes,  whitemen!  ....  Was  life  a  curse 
in  this  land  ?  .  .  .  .  And  yet  —  and  yet  —  a  man  still 
might  battle  for  it! 

m 

The  pallid  sky  became  a  bowl  of  lacquered  brass,  and 
black  against  it,  the  curl  of  steam  from  Unalita.  Over 
its  dome,  a  saucer-shaped  cloud  drooped  fine  tendrils, 
like  one  titanic  sunfish  in  a  limpid  sea.  Cloudlessly  the 
sunlight  died  from  the  crisp,  glittering  morasses.  The 
air  grew  dense  and  woolly;  the  silence  hummed.  To- 
ward noon,  an  elusive  whisper  drowned  the  moan  of  the 
Atna.  The  first  snow  began  to  sift  through  the  dead 
willows  where  the  mare  stumbled  on,  slumping  through 
the  frozen  muck,  cutting  her  ankles.  .  .  . 

Gail  camped  in  an  abandoned  shack  by  the  river, 
surrounded  by  empty  salmon  caches,  like  huge  bird- 
houses  on  bandy  legs,  by  bath  huts  of  willow  withes  bent 


DICK   TRUEBLOOD 

over  piles  of  stones.     Alkali  in  the  slue-water  curdled 
his  tea.     He  slept  in  the  mare's  blankets. 

IV 

This  was  the  first  of  many  days,  of  many  miles.  For 
months  Gail  scoured  the  North.  Hunger,  cold,  and 
loneliness  became  to  him  entities ;  they  grew  homely  as 
the  meaty  plenty  of  his  camps  in  the  Ketchumstocks' 
country,  where  their  fences  caught  the  grey  herds  of 
migrating  caribou,  until  tent-poles  groaned  with  the 
fresh,  fetid  wild  meat,  and  their  gorged  dogs  slept  on 
scarlet  snow;  as  familiar  as  the  buzz  of  talk  in  humid 
road-houses  along  the  Yukon,  where  the  fate  of  nations, 
the  source  of  placer  gold,  and  the  keeping  quality  of 
this  year's  butter  as  against  last's,  was  settled  around 
the  great  drum  stoves,  with  the  rime  inches  thick  on 
the  windows,  and  the  hewn  walls  papered  from  tomato 
cans ;  60°  below  zero  grew  as  intimate  as  his  many  part- 
ners of  a  week,  of  a  month,  an  hour. 

The  day  after  he  left  Clifford,  Gail  fell  in  with  two 
young  bucks,  Stickwan  and  Nicolai.  Teasing  him  for 
chews  of  tobacco,  pilfering  his  grub  when  his  back  was 
turned  in  camp,  eating  tschosh  root  and  fish  oil,  singing 
"  Hetnehay,  Hetnehi!  " —  they  led  him  to  the  big  vil- 
lage of  Mentasta.  From  November  there,  where  the 
shaman's  tom-tom  incantation  against  the  spirit  of 
disease  (it  looked  like  measles)  throbbed  all  night  across 
the  frozen  lake,  to  the  day  in  March  that  Dick  True- 
blood,  freighting  a  rich,  rheumatic  "  operator  "  on  his 
dog-sled  to  be  baked  out  in  the  hospital  at  Chickamen, 
pulled  him  out  of  a  river  —  built  a  fire  and  saved  his 
life  —  Gail  steeped  himself  in  the  soul  of  his  Youngest 
World. 

He  crossed  the  great  Alaskan  Range  as  anchor  ice 


804       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

gripped  the  creeks.  In  the  smoky  leantos  of  Tetling, 
he  heard  the  squaws  halloo  as  they  caught  white-fish 
in  willow  nets,  and  helped  gut  them,  squatting  amid 
dogs  and  infants,  while  the  snow  blizzed  across  the 
stiff  ooze  and  pickerel  grass.  He  lived  as  a  Siwash, 
wise  in  the  paradox  of  their  existence ;  friend  of  the 
insolent,  lounging  bucks,  to  whom  sex  and  mother- 
hood were  a  joke  —  before  Gail,  anyhow  —  yet  who 
would  rather  starve  than  camp  where  one  of  the 
clan  had  died.  They  fingered  over  his  clothes 
and  kit,  questioned  him  curiously  about  them,  but  seemed 
not  to  care  if  their  own  store  of  fish  would  not  last 
out  the  winter.  Parasitic,  condescending,  they  hunted 
with  a  boyish  craft,  trapped  sable  indolently,  as  their 
women  shivered  under  tattered  canvas,  brewing  tea, 
eternally  mending  moccasins,  bullying  the  cowed  and 
starving  dogs,  feeding  naked  babes  from  the  points  of 
knives.  After  the  inch-grass  froze,  and  she  kicked  him 
when  he  drove  her,  Gail  traded  the  sorrel  mare  for 
moose  pemmican,  with  a  chief's  one-eyed  son,  Singo- 
lai  by  name,  who  the  same  morning  blackened  his 
squaw's  eyes,  because  she  stole  and  chewed  the  inex- 
haustible quid  that  he  kept  in  a  tin  pill-box.  Thence 
he  traveled,  alone  and  packing  on  his  back,  the  strange 
flat-topped  ranges  of  the  Forty-mile.  Stone  columns 
like  ruined  temples  crowned  each,  among  buck-brush 
spiked  with  frost  as  long  as  coral.  The  southern  alps 
sank  into  white  tents  on  the  horizon.  Ptarmigan 
crouched  like  marble  carvings  in  the  trail.  He  crossed 
vast,  dry  lake  bottoms,  plains  of  standing,  tropic  dried 
grass,  that  danced  with  the  ruddy  orange  of  winter 
mirages ;  and  on  a  summit  above  the  Yukon  Ramparts, 
he  liveo!  a  week  with  Government  "jerries" — trail- 


DICKTRUEBLOOD  305 

workers  rigging  a  steel  wireless  tower,  who  gossiped  of 
commissary  graft  and  distilling  "  houch."  There  was 
a  squaw  dance  at  the  river.  In  a  great  cabin,  till 
dawn,  a  hundred  moccasins  thumped  the  dust  in  wild 
reels,  to  accordions  and  mouth-organs;  the  bunks  and 
babies  heaped  in  corners;  and  Mica-schist  Billy, 
gambler,  in  a  frock  coat  and  poker-chips  for  cuff -but- 
tons, hit  the  seventh  log  at  each  fling  with  his  Malemute 
Annie.  Outside,  in  the  blear,  cruel  light,  Gail  saw  the 
mile-wide  tide  of  ice  set  solid.  The  moving  avenue  of 
separate,  jammed  cakes  gave  forth  an  incisive,  silken 
rustling.  Of  a  sudden,  with  a  crunching  as  if  his  own 
jaws  had  cracked,  the  whole  Yukon  petrified  into  a 
glistening  corrugation. 

Life  then  lay  with  whitemen  clad  in  parkas  of 
striped  bed-ticking  and  cross-fox  hoods,  in  seal 
mukluJcs;  with  their  jingling  dog-teams;  in  the  Pull- 
man bunks  of  road-houses,  where  men  entered  in 
clouds  of  steam  to  press  ice-matted  beards  against  the 
stove,  and  banter  with  kindly,  coarse-voiced  hostesses 
who  talked  unctuously  at  their  seething  griddles  of 
Dawson  dance-halls  and  trial  husbands.  There  came 
weeks  of  weary  trail-breaking  on  snow-shoes,  through 
the  infinite,  inchoate  quiet  of  snow  and  twilight;  of 
"  hawing  "  at  the  gee-pole  to  the  curled  tails  of  fluffy, 
willing  dogs,  as  the  sled  smoothly  skimmed  the  darken- 
ing peril  of  "flooding "  rivers,  or  pounded  over  rim- 
ice  to  a  ceaseless  "  Mush !  Mush ! "  As  the  beasts 
strained  out  of  chuck-holes,  flopped  down  to  chew  the 
snowballs  from  their  feet,  and  at  night  tore  one  anothers* 
throats  over  their  salmon  and  boiled  rice. 

For  mates  Gail  had1  the  slim,  blue-eyed  Atwater, 
private,  who  had  deserted  from  Fort  Gibbon  for  a  tale 


306       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

of  placer  platinum.  Sheep-faced  old  Martin,  with  his 
club-foot,  who  had  driven  a  cracker  wagon  in  St.  Louis, 
and  whose  daughter  Blanche  was  "  the  elocutionist, 
you  know."  John  Cantine  that  sapient  cynic  who  dis- 
coursed unanswerably  of  the  peoples'  rights,  yet  be- 
lieved that  all  golden  gravels  had  dropped  from  the 
underside  of  ice-bergs  drifting  from  Siberia  when  the 
North  was  undersea.  Hairy  Jocelyn  the  mail-carrier, 
whose  ambition  was  to  own  a  span  of  Morgan  horses, 
but  had  failed  so  far  because,  "  it's  far  away  diggin's 
that  is  always  rich."  The  wrinkled  Scotchman,  late 
of  the  N.  W.  M.  P.,  who  when  lost  on  Slana  River 
had  killed  his  dog-team  in  berserker  anger.  Ayres,  the 
stout  squawman  with  the  State-o'-Maine  twang,  bather 
of  the  whole  village  of  Androfski  in  a  small-pox  epi- 
demic. Dr.  Ford,  veterinary,  from  Grand  Rapids,  in 
search  of  a  cinnabar  mountain.  And  Hogan,  the  spir- 
itualist, who  prospected  by  clairvoyance,  less  to  find 
gold  than  to  prove  his  faith ;  and  last  year  had  vindi- 
cated it  in  the  rush  camp  of  Sourdough,  by  baking  a 
hundred  pies  from  canned  pumpkins  the  night  before 
as  many  stampeders  staggered  in.  ... 

Gail  spent  Christmas  with  Pere  Morice  of  the  Kwin- 
hagamut  Mission.  Though  he  had  the  nose  of  a  Sa- 
vonarola, he  was  mostly  heart,  and  in  the  famine  of 
'94  had  traded  the  silver  mission  cups  to  save  the 
starving  Tananas.  They  saw  the  New  Year  in  at  a 
feast  of  cranberries  and  moosefat.  As  the  father  sat 
under  his  lithographed  lives  of  Christ  and  Judas,  side 
by  side  on  the  wall,  devising  a  phonetic  syllabus  for  the 
language  of  his  flock,  Gail  watched  the  red  spirit  in  the 
thermometer  outside,  that  advertised  a  pain-killer,  sink 
to  — 76°. 


DICKTRUEBLOOD  307 


Ever  toward  the  Yanaga!  .  .  . 

Penniless,  he  earned  his  grub  on  road-house  wood- 
piles, chopping;  and  under  tents  in  the  vacant  regions, 
as  cook,  he  melted  icicles  from  the  stove  at  dawn,  fed 
and  hitched  the  dogs.  He  learned  that  in  the  obliterat- 
ing North  no  man  need  starve,  or  stray  with  death,  un- 
less he  is  a  blackguard  or  a  fool.  It  was  a  kindly  land. 

He  saw  his  trail-mates  as  a  people  apart,  a  picked 
and  destined  band.  None  so  far  had  struck  it  rich; 
yet  they  served  no  master  but  their  daily  dream  of  gold. 
It  made  their  lives  fierce  and  hopeful.  It  claimed  the 
realm  for  men  alone  of  their  own  mettle,  for  sluice-box, 
quartz  mill,  hydraulic  pipe ;  for  "  the  "  railroad  ulti- 
mately. Gold  was  the  god  of  this  relentless  land  they 
loved,  and  of  their  yet  more  inexorable  selves ;  the  goal 
of  that  prime  challenge  of  naked  Nature  —  to  her  own 
subdual ;  of  that  chastening  struggle  with  cold  and  hun- 
ger by  which  she  makes  living  justify  itself;  for  which 
she  is  so  craved,  so  hated,  and  endured. 

From  homes  that  overspread  the  nation,  they  summed 
its  bravery  and  aspiration,  its  ignorance  and  faith. 
They  spoke  with  simple  frankness  of  the  wife  who  had 
erred,  of  a  brother's  immolation  for  his  kin,  or  the 
partner  that  turned  thief.  Their  judgments,  squeezed 
out  by  having  suffered  in  the  muck  of  life,  knifed  theory 
and  sentimentalism  with  sharp  truth.  And  they  were 
young  and  free  eternally.  The  grey-haired  and  the 
beardless  breasted  each  adventure  with  the  same  light 
valour;  proved  it  vain  —  no  matter.  They  had  anni- 
hilated age.  .  .  .  Sympathy!  Gail  was  beyond  feel- 
ing that  for  them.  He  was  —  they. 

And  they  were  the  men  of  Occidental  Avenue  who  had 


308       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

had  the  courage  alike  of  their  sinews  and  their  visions; 
who  stirred  Lamar's  damning  pity,  and  the  jealous 
envy  of  all  wastrels ;  the  goad  of  whose  faith,  nourished 
by  the  land  and  inculcated  by  Bob,  had  regenerated 
Gail,  as  an  assassin  and  without  remorse. 

They,  too,  had  given  right  and  wrong  new  boundaries ; 
and  laughed  in  reminiscences  of  "  neck-tie  parties " 
(hangings)  in  stampede  camps.  They  stained  sin  and 
crime  in  new  shades,  and  had  granted  divorces  with  that 
gusto  integral  with  virility. 

Thus  it  was  in  no  fear  of  the  law  for  having  killed 
Lamar  that  Gail  shunned  the  big  camps.  The  rumour 
that  gradually  accused  him  found  men  apathetic  and 
incurious.  They  would  have  laughed  at  world-wide 
wealth  holding  the  North  to  be  its  toy.  And  on  the 
snowy  trails  Gail  avoided  the  parasites  of  the  gold 
dream  —  the  pimp  with  his  slaves,  and  pirates  of  the 
faro  case.  There,  also,  he  could  foster  at  least  respect 
(argonauts  yield  scant  homage  except  for  their  own 
heroisms)  toward  Bob  as  the  real  master  of  Mt.  Lincoln. 

Slowly  Gail  succeeded  in  this.  He  found  himself  a 
leader,  dominating  men  without  effort.  He  became  a 
familiar  figure  at  the  gee-pole;  stirring  sour  dough  by 
the  smoke  of  campfires;  in  the  broad  blue  stripes  of 
his  parka,  the  light  marmot-skin  cap  over  his  high, 
copper  features,  the  slant  eyebrows,  concaved  cheeks, 
the  crinkling  upper  lip  which  had  forgotten  discontent. 

Ah,  but  the  heart  of  pioneering  was  invulnerable ! 

VI 

Gold  was  the  keystone  of  all  men's  toil  and  self-denials, 
the  source  of  their  unconfessed  love  of  isolation  and  the 
North.  Instead  of  blighting  honour,  leveling  passion, 
it  ennobled  men  ;  and  more  than  the  fortuity  of  discovery, 


DICKTRUEBLOOD  309 

or  its  clean  directness  of  production,  gave  gold  this 
exalted  spell.  Man  was  but  a  phantom  raised  in  its 
mirages.  He  served  no  destiny  but  gold,  conceived  no 
ends  beyond  his  "  stake."  Gold  was  in  itself  an  im- 
mortal thirst. 

Gail  caught  the  fever,  came  to  look  at  life  in  terms 
of  it.  Gold  was,  indeed,  the  germ  of  all  the  material, 
constructive  spirit  of  the  frontier,  to  which  long  ago  he 
had  been  so  blind;  it  was  the  god  of  that  patient, 
aspiring  life  of  the  Youngest  World,  the  core  within  its 
prodigal  sordidness  and  greedy  shams.  Gold  was 
bread,  and  bread  was  perpetuity.  He  was  in  its  thral- 
dom, which,  like  the  web  of  life  itself,  is  a  fabric  of  luck 
and  labour,  the  secret  of  whose  victories  lies  in  the 
strength  of  human  bodies  clinging  to  their  dreams. 

Thus,  when  the  sun  crossed  the  meridian,  and  the 
snows  at  evening  exhaled  in  a  pallid  fluorescence  the  rays 
that  they  had  absorbed  by  day,  Gail  was  mushing  alone 
toward  the  stampede  camp  of  Chickaman,  on  the  divide 
between  the  Tanana  and  Kuskokwim  Rivers.  Chicka- 
man, itself  the  main  settlement  of  a  rich  placer  district, 
was  the  one  town  that  bordered  the  Yanaga  region  on 
the  north.  It  was  the  outfitting  and  departure  point 
for  the  new  eldorado  from  interior  Alaska,  as  Beluga, 
on  the  Pacific  Coast  in  Cook  Inlet,  was  the  starting 
point  of  the  long  trail  thither  from  the  south. 

At  times  in  these  days,  believing  that  he  perceived 
all  guises  of  unending  life,  read  the  riddle  of  Nature 
—  articulate  in  the  sunset  rosiness  of  snow  and  cliff, 
in  the  blinding  drive  of  blizzards  —  Gail  would  bend 
forward,  mutter  some  wild  apostrophe  to  the  naked 
earth,  from  its  chaotic  dawning,  through  its  cruel 
Russian  days,  to  this  Now  of  a  Youngest  World;  of 
which  at  last  he  felt  himself  an  apostle. 


310       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

vn 

He  fell  in  with  Trueblood  on  the  winter  trail  to 
Chickaman,  in  March.  Son  of  the  A.  C.  Co.  clerk  at 
Fort  Nenana,  young  Dick  was  driving  big  Steve  Gash 
on  a  high-sided  sled,  for  $10  a  day,  to  the  hospital  in 
the  camp.  But  even  in  the  tent  at  night,  Gail  seldom 
saw  the  flabby,  wasted  face  of  the  "  operator,"  muffled 
in  plucked  beaver,  dumb  with  rheumatism. 

Trueblood  had  been  born  in  Alaska,  and  was  known 
the  land  over  as  a  rustler.  He  had  had  no  schooling, 
except  from  the  leather-bound  books  of  the  Fort  li- 
brary—  such  science  and  philosophy,  Gail  gathered 
in  his  talk,  as  folk  on  the  "  outside "  send  to  allay 
men's  loneliness  in  the  North  at  the  risk  of  making  them 
insane.  And  Gail  failed  to  dominate  him ;  instead,  he  was 
driven  into  his  shell  on  the  day  of  their  first  intimacy, 
when  Dick,  in  his  cock-sure,  imperative  way  called  him 
a  "hold-up  ideelist."  So  that  when  they  swapped  his- 
tories, Gail  hid  from  him  his  life  with  Martha  and  Lena, 
the  secrets  of  his  love  for  Clara,  the  adventure  with 
Bob.  But  the  flash  of  Dick's  brown-amber  eyes,  like 
poniards,  under  the  white  muffler  that  alone  covered 
his  head,  seemed  to  read  Gail  with  a  cowing  penetration 
which  kept  them  strangers  up  to  the  day  of  their  sepa- 
ration on  the  upper  Kantinaw  River. 

Early  that  morning,  they  had  left  a  general  camping- 
place  near  the  pot-hole  of  the  Itazak  Glacier  from  Mt. 
McKinley.  Many  runner-tracks  radiated  across  the 
river  in  all  directions,  and  before  these  converged  into 
the  trail,  Gail,  following  a  wolverine's  spoor  toward  the 
rim-ice,  suddenly  slumped  through  the  skim  over  a 
breathing  hole.  Dick  fished  him  out  with  a  dog-harness. 
When  he  had  thawed  Gail  at  a  fire  in  the  timber  on  an 


DICK    TRUEBLOOD  311 

island,  Dick  ended  the  awful  silence  of  the  ten  minutes 
which  in  that  unearthly  cold  meant  life  or  death,  by 
saying : 

"  I'll  take  no  thanks  from  a  harsh  one  like  you." 

Gail  motioned  a  dazed  repudiation. 

"  Well,  a  living  fight  between  a  brute  and  a  softie, 
then,"  he  conceded,  only  to  blurt,  "  A  woman  made  you 
so.  Or  you  may  need  one." 

With  a  covert  thrill,  Gail  ignored  the  conjecture, 
to  say,  "  You  must  be  hard  to  win  out  in  this  country. 
You  got  to  see  and  feel  for  men,  but  when  you  have  to, 
take  the  short  cut  with  a  gun,  like  I  did  to  Lamar." 

"  One  or  the  other  nature  in  you,"  averred  Dick, 
with  a  patronising  quietness,  halving  the  paper  for  a 
cigarette,  "  will  cook  your  goose  some  day  up  here  in 
Alaska." 

"  But  yourself,"  retorted  Gail,  "  and  a  woman  ?  .  .  . 
Not  yet?" 

Dick's  head  drooped.  As  Gail  held  his  steaming 
parka  over  the  flames,  he  watched  the  muscles  of  the 
boy's  face  creep,  in  a  way  they  had,  under  his  milk-and- 
rosy  cheeks,  saw  his  peculiarly  white  teeth  set  between 
his  thick  tremulous  lips. 

"  Never,"  Dick  roughly  extended  an  arm.  "  I 
don't  know  women,  except  squaws.  And  they  can't 
be  stood  without  you  played  on  them  with  a  hose.  And 
one  would  freeze  stiff  up  here,"  he  laughed  boyishly. 
.  .  .  "Recollect  Samson  in  the  Bible?  Every  woman 
carries  a  pair  of  shears  for  me.  And  you  got  to  be 
able  to  pack  the  gates  of  Gaza  to  last  out  in  this  North 
—  that  I'd  die  for,  to  have  partners  like  you  and  me 
rule." 

"We  just  see  that,  after  these  weeks,"  stammered 
Gail,  seizing  him  by  the  hand. 


312       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Dick  looked  away,  to  mumble, 

M<Out  of  the  eater  came  forth  food, 
Sweetness  out  of  the  strong — ' 

something  like  that,  you  remind  me.  It  always  sounded 
more  like  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  than  in  the  Bible  I 
mention.  There  must  be  something  wrong  in  any  man 
could  write  po'try.  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  pulling  out." 

Dick  had  planned  to  reach  Chickaman,  still  sixty  miles 
off,  that  night.  Gail,  traveling  a-foot,  knew  that  he 
could  not  make  it  until  the  next.  Dick  shouted  to  his 
dogs,  and  they  strained  away.  Indefinably  bewildered 
and  uplifted,  Gail  stepped  into  his  snow-shoes,  slung 
on  his  pack  and  veered  out  upon  the  river,  following 
Dick's  runner-tracks,  as  he  then  thought. 

They  led  from  the  river,  up  a  narrow  valley  edged 
by  sharp,  sudden  mountains,  and  filled  with  ponds  and 
red-stemmed  willows.  The  rocks  were  covered  with  a 
moss  like  mildewed  buckskin.  Toward  noon,  Gail 
noticed  that  the  paw-prints  in  the  snow  flanked  the 
runner-marks,  so  that  the  dogs  could  not  be  in  harness. 
The  impressions  were  large  and  wolfish,  unlike  those  of 
Dick's  collies.  Gail  realised  that  he  was  off  the  main 
trail. 

Presently  the  strange  outfit  came  into  sight,  a  tat- 
tered, pitiable  company.  A  limping  klootchman 
(squaw)  in  a  grey  muffler  led  it,  packing  a  stove,  her 
red  drawers  bagging  on  the  snow;  then  a  bent,  bow- 
legged  buck  as  old  as  time,  in  hairless  sheep-skins;  two 
kids  in  raveled  canvas,  and  last,  an  aged  squaw, 
stumbling  along  as  she  toted  a  hand-sled  burdened  by 
a  long  wooden  box  stenciled  over  with  a  Seattle  grocer's 
lettering.  A  baby  in  a  tight  bundle  of  moss  swung 
from  her  back,  its  face  bobbing  against  the  edge  of  an 


DICKTRUEBLOOD  313 

axe.  In  leaping  a  ridge  of  snow,  one  of  the  flat-bellied 
dogs,  heavily  loaded  with  pots  and  sacks  of  salmon, 
fell  over  on  his  back,  and  lay  wriggling  his  legs  in  the 
air. 

"Klatowa?"  (Going?)  asked  Gail,  righting  the 
dog. 

"  Hocherda,"  the  old  klootch  answered,  pointing  for- 
ward. She  turned  her  face  to  Gail's.  It  was  as  lined 
and  shrunken  as  a  cured  moose-hide ;  and  blue,  painted 
lines  ran  outward  from  her  toothless  mouth. 

"  No  Chickaman  tlail? "  he  asked  with  a  sinking 
sense. 

She  nodded.  "  Summer  tlail."  The  others  turned, 
stared  at  him  dully  for  a  moment,  and  kept  on  without 
pausing.  They  did  not  swarm  around  him,  Siwash- 
wise.  Gail  crunched  forward,  feeling  a  dejected  sym- 
pathy. 

So,  he  was  on  the  land  trail  to  Chickaman,  used  when 
the  river  was  open.  But  Hocherda !  ...  It  was  one  of 
those  "  dead  cities  "  of  Alaska,  the  parables  of  camp 
gossip  the  North  over;  each  a  focus  of  that  stamped- 
ing anarchy  of  '98,  when  the  loudest  talker  who  could 
pan  two  colours  in  a  creek  lured  across  the  blue  autumn 
distances  the  bearded,  filthy,  disillusioned  riff-raff  of 
far  cities,  with  soft  hands  numbed  by  their  first  toil, 
cursing  the  splendour  of  their  dreams,  to  build  habita- 
tions and  spawn  disease.  Hectic,  mottled  with  scurvy, 
they  blunted  their  last  days  before  starvation  in  log 
dive  and  dance-hall,  in  those  passions  of  "  civilisation  '* 
that  had  blighted  them  from  birth.  By  spring,  life  in 
the  North  henceforth  was  chastened  and  heroic  to  a  few 
survivors;  but  the  mass  (outside  the  graveyard)  re- 
turned south,  boasting  of  hardships,  reviling  the  land, 
hardened  for  keener  parasitisms.  In  the  summer  si- 


314       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

lence,  toadstools  crowned  the  dung-heaps  where  horses 
had  been  nourished  on  baked  beans ;  porcupine  quills 
rattled  against  phonographs  and  sewing-machines 
within  the  gaping  door-ways ;  rank  plants  smothered 
the  mud  roofs,  and  the  flooding  slue  circled  all  with  green 
slime  and  mosquitoes.  The  memory  of  Hocherda  and 
its  sisters  lived  in  the  wilderness,  like  a  miasma. 

"  Let  me  see  this,"  thought  Gail  to  himself,  ploughing 
on  behind  the  savages.  "  Thus  the  land  exacts  its  toll, 
to  test  the  worthy."  His  divergence  on  the  summer 
trail  seemed  providential. 

Under  blue  clouds  furred  with  gold,  a  raven  swept 
so  low  that  he  heard  the  satiny,  shroud-like  rustle  of 
its  wings.  Then  the  dark  spruces  opened  upon  the 
thin  snow  of  a  clearing,  lemon-hued  in  the  latening 
evening.  The  cabins  appeared,  tossed  about  like  mis- 
shapen blocks,  their  black  window  and  door  spaces 
dumbly  eloquent  of  the  suffering  and  wantonness  that 
they  had  seen.  Gail  trod  gingerly  through  the  brittle, 
waist-high  weeds;  a  nail  pierced  one  moccasin;  he  en- 
tered one  of  the  shacks. 

Sodden  grey  shirts  and  decaying  jumpers  lay  all 
about  in  the  smell  of  rotting  canvas,  simulating  corpses. 
In  the  havoc  wrought  by  wolf  and  wolverine,  among 
ashes  scattered  from  the  mud  chimney,  were  picks, 
shovels,  gold-pans,  a  whip-saw,  and  three  big  blue- 
glazed  match  cartons.  There  were  broken  mirrors, 
rusty  stove-pipe,  and  sage-green  pills  trickling  from  a 
bottle  in  an  upset  medicine  chest.  A  gilt  shaving  mug 
dangled  on  a  wire  from  the  rafters.  Among  the  tat- 
tered prints  and  newspapers  nailed  to  the  logs,  he 
marked  the  face  of  a  dark,  passionate  woman,  which  was 
also  clever.  "  The  Italian  Camille,"  was  printed  under- 
neath, "  D-u-s-e."  He  picked  up  a  sheet  of  music, 


DICKTRUEBLOOD  315 

"The  Maiden's  Prayer  —  F.   Schubert;"  and   at  his 
feet  was  a  broken  violin. 

Lying  upon  this,  he  saw  a  newspaper.  Every  other 
scrap  of  paper  in  the  cabin  was  yellow  with  age.  It  was 
the  Valdez  Prospector.  He  opened  it,  reading  a  Novem- 
ber date  of  the  year  past.  Some  one  on  the  way  in 
to  Chickaman  had  camped  there,  as  a  pile  of  unsod- 
den  ashes  in  one  corner  showed,  before  the  Kantinaw 
had  set.  Gail  recalled  that  stirring  evening  when  he 
had  watched  the  dry-farmers  opening  their  mail  from 
home,  and  his  flashing  thought  then,  that  some  day  he 
would  receive  a  revealing  intimation.  .  .  .  He  scanned 
the  brief  dispatches  in  the  sheet  from  the  forgotten, 
teeming  southland,  the  local  gossip  of  assessment-work, 
hydraulic  propositions,  new  creeks  and  lodes,  caches, 
options,  quartz-mills.  His  eyes  fixed,  staring,  under  a 
notice  of  the  Thanksgiving  raffle  for  a  diamond  ring  in 
"  Nell's  place."  The  blood  veined  into  all  his  extrem- 
ities, as  he  read: 

"Pending  a  decision  in  Charles  Lamar's  appeal  against  the 
ownership  of  the  Torlina  townsite  by  John  Hartline,  his  sister 
Clara  will  take  an  outfit  into  the  Yanaga  country  by  way  of 
Beluga,  Cook  Inlet." 

Gail's  heart  leaped.  He  would  find  her  there.  She 
was  keeping  their  vow,  ever  true  to  him.  He  would 
work  his  body  to  the  bone  in  Chickaman,  at  anything, 
to  earn  a  grubstake  and  join  her.  And  there  died  in 
him  the  misgiving  of  hopelessness  which  he  had  nurtured 
since  writing  her  to  Kingdom  from  Pere  Morice's  cabin 
at  Kwinhagamut,  where  the  monthly  mail  team  stopped. 
He  chided  himself,  feeling  that  her  indomitable,  guiding 
presence  had  been  obscured  by  the  absorbing  and  naked, 
chaotic  life  of  the  long  trail. 

Then  his  spirits  chilled.     John  would  have  to  stay 


316       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

in  Valdez  to  safeguard  his  rights.  Could  she  be  going 
with  Ireson,  perhaps?  Or  alone,  without  any  partner? 
Impossible,  that.  But  did  not  each  trust  the  other 
utterly,  and  had  she  thus  far  not  avowed  her  love  and 
faith  in  him  to  be  stronger  than  his  own  toward  her? 
Yet  a  new  wave  of  depression  shook  him,  rooted  some- 
how in  Trueblood's  contradictory  view  of  womankind 
in  the  dreams  of  pioneers.  Did  Dick,  so  enleagued  to 
Alaska  as  a  partisan  of  its  high  destiny,  dread  woman 
as  a  Delilah? 

He  tore  the  item  from  the  paper,  slipped  it  into  his 
striped  parka,  and  strode  restlessly  to  the  cabin-door. 
From  the  direction  in  which  the  Siwashes  had  vanished 
came  a  grinding,  rasping  sound,  sharpened  by  the  cold. 
He  started  toward  them  through  the  gloaming.  The 
trail  left  the  charnel  houses,  entering  an  open  space  at 
the  far  end  of  the  clearing.  All  at  once  the  snow 
seemed  to  be  roughened,  corrugated,  in  even  rows  by 
countless  little  upright  boards  sticking  for  a  few  inches 
through  the  crust.  Gail  stumbled  over  one  of  them; 
rising,  he  saw  that  letters  had  been  burned  across  the 
wood  as  if  with  a  hot  file:  "  L.  E.  Volke,  Urbana, 
Minn.  Drowned  in  Big  Ghana  Creek,  May  28,  '99. 
Saved  wife  in  break-up." 

The  Hocherda  graveyard.  It  appeared  to  spread 
around  him,  larger  than  the  dead  city,  to  encompass  it. 
The  cabins  were  but  the  shell  of  this  wen  upon  the 
vast.  The  graves  were  its  heart  —  the  mute,  im- 
memorial tribute  of  the  unfit  to  the  North. 

Slightly  dizzy,  Gail  sat  down  on  a  head-board  that 
had  fallen  over  its  shallow  tomb,  to  watch  the  Siwashes. 
They  were  huddled,  heads  down,  at  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  except  the  two  kids,  who  were  shouting  and 
playing  around  the  yard.  He  saw  a  pick-axe  and  a 


DICKTRUEBLOOD  317 

long  shovel  lying  on  the  snow.  A  new  grave  had  gored 
the  frozen  soil.  Into  this,  the  old  white-haired  buck 
had  lowered  the  cracker-box,  and  was  dropping  stony 
chunks  of  earth  upon  it.  They  made  a  thudding  noise. 

He  had  been  following  a  funeral  procession,  of  crea- 
tures who  likely  for  weeks  had  toted  about  a  child  or 
parent,  seeking,  in  their  imitative  slavish  way,  not  to 
bury  it  upon  poles  high  in  the  air  under  a  little  roof, 
as  their  custom  of  generations  is;  but  choked  in  the 
darkness  of  this  tainted  soil,  among  sordid  incapables 
who  had  come  to  corrupt  their  ancient  stamina  with 
disease  and  vice. 

The  young  woman  who  packed  the  stove  sank  upon 
a  stump,  head  in  her  hands.  The  aged  man  was  tying 
a  piece  of  flour  sack,  covered  with  advertising  and  four 
big  "  X's,"  to  a  long  stick  which  he  had  thrust  into 
the  filled  grave.  It  was  like  a  flag  there  in  the  ashen 
twilight. 

Gail's  heart  filled  with  a  feverish  melancholy,  in  which 
death  and  failure,  love  and  sacrifice,  mingled  elusively 
under  the  spell  of  womanhood  as  a  strong,  benign  image 
of  his  Clara.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  ran,  flounder- 
ing among  the  head-boards.  He  plunged  on  through 
the  forest,  until  it  broke  upon  the  pallid  river  and  the 
winter  trail  again.  A  range  of  gnomish  hills  smothered 
the  copper  blaze  of  a  low  horizon.  He  "  marmucked  " 
wood,  and  camped  alone  in  the  furtive  murmur  of  ice- 
bound waters.  He  made  tea,  slipped  into  his  sleeping- 
bag. 

For  weeks,  a  sense  of  unreality  in  all  scenes  and  events 
had  been  growing  in  him.  Now  it  seemed  to  over- 
power his  mind.  But  this  glad  news  of  Clara,  and 
Dick  at  their  parting,  stood  vividly  before  him,  the  one 
a  trenchant  fact,  the  other  an  uplifting  personality. 


318       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Hocherda  and  the  funeral  procession  receded  into  that 
dream  of  the  vanished  months.  Gail  was  filled  with  a 
thirst  for  lights  and  motley  sounds,  for  men  preoccu- 
pied yet  unstriving.  He  felt  a  curious  stiffness  in  all 
his  limbs,  a  heat  upon  his  temples,  and  craved  the  re- 
laxations of  luxury  —  a  warm  bath. 

He  thought  of  Trueblood,  with  his  reserve  and  hardi- 
hood, his  self-assured  ideality  for  Alaska  and  men's 
future  there,  his  penetrating  dreaminess  —  all  a  dower 
of  the  land's  inherent  wisdom.  Dick  was  what  the  chil- 
dren of  its  true  pioneers  should  be.  He  embodied  the 
stern,  portentous  beauty  of  the  North.  Yet  had  he 
not  the  very  softness  against  which  he  had  warned  Gail? 
Had  he  no  ultimate,  immortal  aim  beneath  his  fervour? 

Gail  fell  asleep,  to  the  purring  of  his  beans  as  they 
boiled  on  the  ashes,  to  that  beloved  music  of  the  North's 
wide  spaces.  He  awoke  in  an  ocean  of  furry  mist, 
through  which  the  spruces  rose  dark,  coraline,  metallic, 
and  the  sun  was  shedding  sheafs  of  silver. 

Late  that  night,  a  squarish  immanence  loomed  upon 
the  ghostly  field  of  the  river.  Close  to,  it  became  a 
lightless  house  built  upon  a  scow.  A  limp  yellow  flag 
marked  it  as  the  small-pox  hospital  which  lies  outside 
all  big  northern  camps.  The  glow  of  Chickaman,  where 
later  he  could  find  no  trace  of  Dick  Trueblood,  crept 
up  beyond. 


CHAPTER  XV 
SYDNEY 


THE  trail  became  a  maze  of  cross-tracks.  The  glow 
mounted  to  a  glare  brighter  than  any  aurora.  Un- 
dulating steam-clouds  seethed  vividly  above  the  angular, 
inky  outlines  of  the  cabin-tops. 

Would  he  never  get  there?  It  was  strange  to  link 
time  with  figured  hours.  And  he  had  lost  the  keen  de- 
sire to  sink  his  limbs  into  hot  water,  to  eat  without  first 
chopping,  bending  over  flames,  burning  his  calloused 
hands.  Life  here  was  to  be  more  —  and  less  —  than 
fortifying  the  body  against  death ;  and  the  thought  of 
its  complexity  confused  him.  That  gruelling  monotony 
of  months,  from  which  last  night  he  had  ached  to  be 
free,  appeared  delectable.  He  was  leaving  something 
of  himself,  a  physical  part,  behind  in  the  wilderness. 
He  was  quitting  the  insight  of  unbounded  horizons,  the 
source  of  revelations,  the  scene  of  any  triumph  to  be  his. 
He  was  nearing  men,  congregated,  diffusely  self-ab- 
sorbed; an  enervating  disorder.  He  had  a  sense  of 
ignominy,  of  abasement,  a  slight  fear. 

Now  he  plodded,  a  snow-shoe  under  each  arm,  among 
the  slovenly  shacks  of  the  outskirts.  Steam  issued 
from  their  every  chink,  from  each  stovepipe  of  all  the 
huddled  cabins  ahead,  as  from  countless  volcanic  pores. 
Incandescent  lamps  lit  the  long  main  street  of  false- 
fronted  saloons  and  stores,  yet  only  a  few  frost-wadded 

windows  gleamed  faintly  into  its  deserted  brightness. 

319 


320       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

He  passed  a  lone  figure,  mountainously  furred,  breath- 
ing like  a  steam  valve,  his  felt  shoes  crunching  on  the 
high  board  sidewalk.  For  the  first  time  Gail  noticed  his 
own  breath,  and  the  cold  cut  him. 

He  stopped  before  a  big  sign,  "  The  Savoy."  A 
gilt  barber-pole  leaned  from  its  saw-boards.  Miracu- 
lous !  that  gulfed  in  this  arctic  waste,  men  endured  this 
poisonous  cold,  •  ate  and  slept,  loved  and  gamed,  as 
blandly  as  across  the  bleak  oceans,  in  warm  and  jaded 
cities.  Still,  he  needed  a  shave.  And  his  hair  had  not 
been  cut  since  Hogan,  the  spiritualist,  had  crowned  him 
with  a  china  bowl  on  Manila  Fork.  But  he  did  not  ex- 
pect the  kindly  welcome  of  a  gulch  cabin  in  that  saloon. 

Its  blaze  of  light  assaulted  and  bewildered.  The 
moist  heat  suffocated.  To  the  right  the  bar,  to  the 
left  a  barber  chair  behind  a  rail,  abutted  two  high, 
turkey-red  and  tasseled  curtains.  These  cut  off  the 
dance-  and  gambling-hall  in  the  rear,  and  as  Gail 
dropped  his  pack  and  snow-shoes  on  the  saw-dusted 
floor,  a  blare  of  mechanical  and  tinny  music  struck  up 
behind  them.  A  square- jawed,  pock-marked  stout  man 
in  a  grey  cardigan  jacket  was  labelling  demijohns  on 
the  bar.  At  a  table  behind  the  rail,  a  kinky-haired 
youth  in  a  blue  miner's  shirt  and  a  starched  collar 
was  impatiently  throwing  himself  "  cold  "  hands,  as  if 
the  rag-time  had  interrupted  his  talk  with  the  barber, 
who  was  honing  a  razor  —  a  sleekish,  dark  person  with 
up-curled  moustaches,  under  a  brown  derby  hat. 

Gail  shed  his  parka,  nightgown-wise,  and  climbed 
into  the  padded  chair.  Without  a  greeting,  the  barber 
dropped  his  strop,  and  digging  a  comb  into  Gail's 
matted  locks,  said  to  the  young  man, 

"  Say,  Len,  old  Connie  was  the  swellest  bitch  I  ever 
see.  That  spring  when  she  died  out  to  Willow  Crick, 


SYDNEY  321 

with  pups  festering  in  her,  she  made  three  trips  to  my 
ground  on  the  Yanaga,  as  leader."  And  the  claim- 
owning  barber  minutely  detailed  the  sled-dog's  exploits 
and  death. 

Len  took  this  as  the  text  of  a  bantering  comparison 
between  dogs  and  men,  at  the  expense  of  chechawko 
mining  experts.  Gail  grew  drowsy  in  the  glare  of  the 
mirror  before  him,  which  portrayed  pointed  spruces 
drawn  in  soap,  under  a  stuffed  fox  and  cloth  flowers 
in  vases  on  a  shelf  above,  clippers  and  bottles  below. 
In  pauses  of  the  piano  and  the  scrape  of  dancing  feet, 
the  hollow  grind  of  roulette  marbles,  exclamations  that 
started  a  rumble  of  voices  issued  from  the  red  curtains. 
Having  his  back  to  them,  Gail  could  only  hear  the 
strident  drawl  of  the  girls  as  each  led  her  "  boob  "  to 
the  bar,  accepting  port  wine  and  her  percentage 
cheque.  It  sickened  him,  but  he  was  seized  by  a  fierce 
impulse  to  throw  off  the  barber's  bib,  follow  a  girl  be- 
hind the  curtains,  seize  and  dance  her. 

"  Six  bits,"  said  the  barber,  finishing,  as  Gail,  on  his 
feet  once  more  was  trying  to  recognise  himself  through 
the  soapy  trees.  He  both  felt  and  saw  his  sharp  cheeks 
blanch.  His  hands  slapped  the  empty  buckskin  in  the 
region  of  his  pockets.  Money!  He  had  forgotten 
•such  a  thing! 

"  Here,  Sig,"  said  Len,  compassing  Gail's  discomfort 
in  a  flash,  and  threw  two  silver  cart-wheels  on  his 
table.  "  I'll  stake  the  sour-dough.  Hold  him  —  put 
under  obligations  to  the  house." 

For  some  time,  continually  drinking  rock-and-rye,  his 
voice  had  been  growing  hesitant  and  abstracted.  Now 
Len  fixed  his  boyish  eyes  upon  Gail.  Wide-apart, 
slanted  downward  at  the  corners,  something  in  their 
indecisive  hue  at  once  obstinate  and  weak,  impressed 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

him,  a  look  of  wasted  intelligence  in  his  well-cu? 
features,  which  only  a  roughened  skin  saved  from  being 
womanly. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  can  pay  you  right  off,"  began 
Gail,  "  unless  I  get  a  job."  But  his  benefactor  cut  in, 

"  Steep,  ain't  it,  for  a  dump  like  this  ?  "  and  gave 
a  wink  which  included  the  boss  behind  the  bar.  Then 
he  swept  Gail  rapidly  with  uncertain  eyes,  and  rolled 
a  cigarette  with  the  same  trepid  haste  in  which  his  old 
bunkie  Rex  used  to. 

"  If  this  camp  is  as  empty  as  she  looks,"  said  Gail, 
"  maybe  I'll  get  a  chance  for  work  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  the's  always  work  in  a  morgue,"  encouraged 
Len,  with  a  grin  toward  the  demijohns.  "  If  only  pol- 
ishing the  glass  coffins,  eh,  Overheiser  ?  " 

Overheiser  put  down  his  jug,  and  fixing  leaden  eyes 
upon  Gail,  growled  that  all  Chickaman  was  up  on  the 
creeks,  burning  ground  —  thawing  pay  gravel  for  the 
spring  clean-up.  The  town  had  been  a  live  wire  up  to 
a  month  ago,  and  would  be  again  in  April,  when  the 
stampeders  began  to  leave  the  played-out  camps,  be- 
cause Yanaga  River  to  the  south'ard  of  here  was 
another  Klondike,  -sir,  but  permanent,  on  account  of 
the  quartz. 

"You  give  our  partner  a  job  shifting  icicles  out  of 
all  the  dust  you  take  in  till  then,  Joe,"  said  Len.  "  He 
won't  freeze  his  fingers." 

"  He  ken  sweep  out  around  the  tables  mornings  if 
he's  minded  to,"  said  the  boss,  gruffly.  "  Four  dollars 
a  day,  and  board  himself." 

"  Take  it,"  muttered  Len  to  Gail.  "  It's  a  cleaner 
job  than  I  have  here."  And  Gail  was  moved  by  the 
earnest  intent  to  help  him,  the  sudden  self-deprecation. 

"  I'll  go  you  for  a  week,  anyhow,"  he  said,  with  a 


SYDNEY 

forced  carelessness;  and  then,  boldly  picking  up  the 
change  which  Sig  the  barber  had  thrown  down,  and 
with  it  Len's  other  dollar,  Gail  said  to  the  latter,  "  I  can 
square  you,  at  any  rate." 

"  Show  up  at  nine  —  the  morning,"  mumbled  the 
boss,  ducking  his  head  under  the  bar. 

"  Pull  out  for  Yanaga,  when  you've  scraped  a  grub- 
stake? "  asked  Len.  "Plenty  of  power-o'-attorney 
capitalists'll  be  looking  for  strong  hands  at  the  gold- 
pan  in  this  stampede.  We're  on  the  ground  first,  re- 
member. A  man  don't  hit  it  like  this  more'n  once  in  a 
wolf's  age."  His  thin-lidded  eyes  flashed,  and  the  edge 
of  an  extravagant,  golden  vision  swept  Gail.  Len 
showed  a  real  ardour,  strange  in  a  youth  so  clearly  so- 
phisticated, and  not  wholly  due  to  drink.  "  And  Joe 
Overheiser  ain't  such  a  bear,"  he  confided.  "  Stick  to 
him.  Have  you  got  a  bunk?  " 

Gail,  flustered,  shook  his  head. 

"  They'll  sting  you  three  large  iron  dollars  a  flop  in 
any  of  our  ladder  Waldorfs,"  said  Len,  "  and  no  boots 
allowed  in  the  bunks.  How  about  Nixon  Mac's  — 
over  his  stable?  "  Len  raised  his  voice  toward  Over- 
hesier,  but  without  response,  so  went  on :  "  Mac's 
freighting  up  the  cricks.  He  left  me  his  key."  Len 
drew  it  from  a  pocket,  handed  it  to  Gail.  "  Two  loca- 
tions round  the  first  corner,  as  you  came  off  the  trail. 
Then  follow  your  nose.  How'd  a  night  in  Chicago 
strike  you  now  —  Auditorium  bar,  and  then  a  show  ?  " 

A  cadaverous  wreck  of  a  man,  his  sunken  mouth 
moist  with  tobacco,  had  appeared  between  the  curtains, 
nodding  Len  within.  Without  another  word,  he  van- 
ished behind  them.  The  piano  struck  up  again,  more 
softly. 

"  That's  Borden's  job,  at  the  ivories,  turn  about  with 


THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

that  old  crimp,"  observed  Overheiser,  emerging  behind 
the  bar.  "  And  d'ye  know  who  Len  is  ?  Senator  Bor- 
den's  son,  of  Wyoming.  Why,  he  c'd  tickle  the  wireless 
to  his  old  man,  and  cash  in  enough  to  grubstake  this 
whole  saloon." 

"  Got  too  nice  a  touch  for  beating  that  box,"  said  the 
barber  from  behind  a  newspaper.  "  Shows  the  elegant 
folks  he  was  raised  with." 

"  But  his  pride  hurts  him.  And  he  was  pulling  up 
on  *  dills  '  and  the  booze,  till  this  woman  grabs  him. 
Now  he's  owned.  A  man  ain't  a  man,  took  so  in  this 
country.  And  now  she's  made  a  home  for  him,  on  a 
squint  at  the  Senator's  pocket."  Overheiser  paused. 
"  But  Len'll  only  stand  for  so  much.  Said  tonight 
he'd  gave  her  her  walking  papers  —  for  the  fourth 
time.  So  he's  drunk.  Ought  to  hit  out  for  the  cricks." 

Gail's  concern  for  the  volatile  black  sheep  was  being 
further  awakened,  when  he  caught  sight  of  the  big 
clock  over  the  bar,  its  hands  folded  upon  midnight. 

"  Guess  I'll  be  rustling  some  grub,"  he  said,  picking 
up  his  outfit. 

"  Have  a  rope  ?  "  He  took  the  cigar  that  Joe  of- 
fered. 

Outside,  the  cold  withered  Gail.  He  thought: 
"  Why  do  men  help  me  so  ?  What  is  my  appeal  ?  " 
In  his  heart  of  hearts,  for  his  own  great  end,  he  had 
always  felt  that  he  possessed  some  masterful  quality, 
marking  him  apart  from  his  fellows.  But  he  had  never 
expected  others  to  recognise  this,  to  feel  it,  to  show 
it.  And  least  of  all,  one  like  Len  Borden. 


On  a  diagonal  corner,  Gail  ate  wheat-cakes,  gulped 
two  thick  mugs  of  coffee,  at  the  tiny  oil-cloth  table  of  a 


SYDNEY  325 

"  restaurant  "  smoky  with  lard.  The  diminutive  cross- 
eyed man  who  served  him  also  ran  a  news-stand,  and 
waxed  voluble  over  some  drunkard  who  had  been  cruis- 
ing up  the  creeks  for  him,  selling  last  year's  magazines 
at  a  dollar  each,  and  lately  piked  over  the  Wildhorse 
divide  with  the  gains. 

Opposite,  Gail  spotted  the  "  California  Baths." 
The  opening  door  jangled  a  bell,  and  he  found  himself 
in  a  room  with  a  bright  ingrain  carpet  and  decorated 
with  dried  grasses.  An  elderly,  battered-looking 
woman  in  black  sat  warming  her  feet  at  a  coal  base- 
burner  with  a  piped  copper  boiler  on  top.  Two  others 
lolled  on  a  low  settee,  the  larger  holding  in  her  lap  a 
clear-skinned  boy  about  eight  years  old,  dressed  in  a 
sort  of  reindeer  skin  sailor  suit. 

As  the  first  arose  with  a  weary  nod,  twisted  a  damper 
over  the  stove  and  disappeared  down  a  passage  in  the 
rear,  Gail  noticed  that  the  smaller  and  younger  of  her 
visitors  had  been  crying.  She  wore  grey  squirrel- 
skins  and  a  big  hat  with  long  white  ostrich  plumes. 
She  had  the  round,  enameled  features  of  her  kind 
under  an  abrupt  bang,  which  gave  her  a  look  at  once 
doll-like  and  wanton.  Her  light  blue  eyes  were 
equally  soft  and  cruel,  innocent  and  shrewd;  appeal- 
ing. 

But  it  was  the  sight  of  the  boy  —  the  first  white  child 
Gail  had  seen  since  he  could  remember  —  that  dazed 
him  for  a  moment.  There  was  something  fawn-like, 
tender,  exquisite,  in  that  little  figure,  beside  which  the 
eternal  youths  of  the  trail,  even  Dick,  seemed  false  and 
haggard.  He  was  young,  divine!  All  the  future 
breathed  there,  as  he  smeared  his  face  with  the  dough- 
nut he  was  eating,  and  his  wandering  clear  gaze  dulled 
and  hardened  the  women's  eyes.  An  aching  warmth 


326       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

spread  through  Gail's  bosom,  a  hateful  jealousy  at 
their  possession  of  him. 

"  Well,  Sydney,  I  never  would  have  expected  such 
feelings  in  you,"  said  the  older,  who  held  the  kid,  with 
a  deliberate  sympathy,  eyeing  Gail  boldly.  In  her  red 
parka,  she  might  have  passed  for  a  strong-minded 
spinster,  except  for  the  deep  perpendicular  lines  in  her 
cheeks,  and  a  moist  redness  about  her  mouth. 

Sydney,  the  younger  woman,  hid  her  head. 

The  battered  lady  reappeared  with  towels  over  her 
arm,  and  beckoned  Gail  down  the  entry.  There  she 
unlocked  the  door  of  a  cubicle  all  but  filled  by  a  white 
tub,  and  placed  the  towels  on  a  stool,  by  a  chunk  of 
soap  and  a  vegetable  sponge.  As  Gail  undressed,  and 
she  shook  down  the  stove,  he  could  hear,  over  the  open 
top  of  his  closet,  the  voices  of  the  pair  seated.  They 
began  to  review  the  times  that  they  had  gone  broke  in 
various  camps ;  relishing,  like  men,  the  adventure  of 
their  hardships.  The  younger  told  with  a  loose  hoarse- 
ness about  a  French  Count  who  ran  a  moving  picture 
show,  with  which  as  box-office  lady  she  had  come  to 
grief :  "  Aristidy,  he  called  himself,  got  that  hot 
at  the  drunk  in  the  audience,  he  starts  for  him  with  his 
gun,  but  first  chucking  his  cigarette  butt  into  the  tub 
of  films  by  the  gas-tank.  And  say,  Mrs.  Frances 
Mueller,  when  I  gets  outside  into  that  gang  of  yelling 
rough-necks,  my  hair  was  a-fire.  Well,  it  was  him 
in  a  kamaleika  who  smothered  me  out  that  brings  me  to 
this  camp,  an'  all  these  troubles." 

She  began  to  sob  again,  harshly.  Gail,  luxuriating 
in  the  steamy  water,  laving  his  long  smooth  legs,  his 
thin  and  corded  torso,  could  not  repress  a  smile,  in 
his  knowledge  of  such  a  one's  easy  emotions.  Then 
Mrs.  Mueller  related  how  she  had  bet  and  lost  all  one 


SYDNEY  327 

summer's  earnings  in  the  long-distance  dog-race  from 
Candle  Creek,  on  a  phony  tip  from  a  man  who  had  set 
her  up  to  an  oyster-loaf  supper.  Soon  their  voices 
sank,  and  from  the  curt  negatives  of  the  proprietress, 
Gail  guessed  that  they  were  questioning  her  about  him- 
self. Then  Mrs.  Mueller,  after  a  long  harangue, 
hushed  but  vigorous,  all  at  once  advised  ostenta- 
tiously — 

"  Now,  Sydney,  you  got  to  hustle  or  starve.  I'd 
play  for  him  myself,  if  I  wasn't  selling  my  hash-house 
up  on  the  crick  and  pulling  out  of  town.  I  like  his 
Chink  eye-brows  and  that  wild  look.  And  mebbe  he 
ain't  so  broke  as  he  seems."  Gail  felt  his  face  grow 
hotter  than  the  water.  "  Where's  your  old  nerve? 
Take  a  prospect,  anyhow." 

He  thought  that  he  heard  a  step  in  the  corridor,  and 
stopped  splashing.  Suddenly,  "  Now  you  come  right 
back  here,  Sydney ! "  broke  out  Mrs.  Mueller  with  a 
coarse  snigger. 

Gail  caught  a  scraping  sound  outside  his  door,  then 
a  thump,  as  of  feet  landing  on  the  oil-cloth  of  the  pas- 
sage. Could  he  have  seen  a  white  feather  waving  over 
the  open  top  of  the  cubicle?  He  flung  out  his  arm, 
turned  on  the  cold  water  spigot,  and  soon  was  dress- 
ing feverishly.  When  he  came  out  to  pay  for  his 
bath,  Sydney  was  standing  by  the  stove.  She  still  had 
on  her  squirrel  coat  and  the  hat,  but  Mrs.  Mueller  had 
taken  off  her  red  parka,  and  seated  in  a  pair  of  buck- 
skin knickerbockers,  with  her  short  greyish  hair,  and 
the  fuzz  on  her  chin,  looked  ridiculously  mannish. 
Both  their  heads  were  averted  in  a  strained  silence, 
but  as  Gail  received  the  change  to  his  last  dollar  from 
the  proprietress,  the  kid  bounced  across  the  room  to 
him. 


328       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

"  You  didn't  bring  no  clean  clothes  in  your  pack, 
did  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  son.  I  —  I  got  to  rustle  for  them  yet,"  an- 
swered Gail. 

"  Arthur !     You  leave  him  alone,"  ordered  Sydney. 

"  Is  he  yours?  "  demanded  Gail  boldly.  "  The  little 
shaver?  " 

"Mine?  What  makes  you  think  so?"  she  replied 
likewise,  but  her  glance  seemed  to  flinch.  "  He  don't 
look  like  me,  does  he?" 

"  I'll  give  you  some  duds,"  the  boy  burst  out  rogue- 
ishly,  plugging  a  fist  into  one  of  Gail's  extended  palms ; 
and  at  the  touch  of  his  skin,  the  room  wavered.  But  in- 
stantly Mrs.  Mueller  rose,  grabbed  Arthur;  held  him, 
sullen  and  crest-fallen,  back-to  at  the  settee. 

"  You're  a-coming  with  me  ?  "  whispered  Sydney  to 
Gail  with  an  effort,  and  yet  shamelessly,  her  shiny  cheeks 
deepening  in  hue.  She  was  drawing  on  a  pair  of  black 
seal  gloves,  and  furtively  inclined  her  head  to  the  door. 
"  You  look  like  you'd  treat  a  girl  square." 

That  reckless  desire  flared  through  him,  which  he  had 
had  in  the  barber  chair,  hearing  the  couples  at  the  bar. 
Their  heads  were  close  together. 

"Yes,"  Gail  broke  out,  huskily.  "But  whose  kid 
is  he,  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  mine,  dear,"  spoke  up  Mrs.  Mueller,  blandly. 
"  Ain't  you,  Arthur? "  But  the  boy,  kicking  rebel- 
liously  at  her  seat,  remained  squelched.  "  Why 
shouldn't  he  be  mine?  "  she  reproached,  with  a  hideous 
archness. 

Sydney  had  slipped  her  hand  into  his,  as  he  lifted  his 
pack.  The  bell  on  the  door  jingled  behind  them,  to 
a  scathing  outbreak  of  suppressed  feelings  on  propriety 
from  the  lady  in  black,  hurled  at  Mrs.  Mueller. 


SYDNEY  329 

They  crunched  along,  silent,  in  the  inhuman  cold. 
The  shacks  thinned,  but  the  board  sidewalk  became 
higher  and  broader.  A  dreary  swamp  surrounded  the 
two  rows  of  one-story  houses,  each  exactly  alike.  The 
single  window  in  some  was  obscured  by  a  yellow  shade ; 
in  others  this  was  up;  but  nearly  all  were  brightly 
lighted.  Gail  understood  the  custom. 

"  The  boy's  not  yours?  "  he  demanded  angrily  once 
more. 

Sydney  only  squeezed  his  hand.  In  the  losing  strug- 
gle that  consumed  his  being,  he  grasped  at  this  as  a 
denial. 

She  led  him  into  one  of  the  little  houses,  lit  the  gaudy 
lamp  on  the  bright,  fringed  table-cloth.  Not  novel 
were  the  ornate  gilt  things  on  the  mantel  over  the  stove, 
the  lithographed  advertisements,  the  coarse  lace  spread 
on  the  big  bed.  In  a  chair,  face  down,  lay  an  open 
book:  "Les  Miserables.  V.  Hugo." 

She  took  off  the  white  plumes.  Her  bleached  hair 
was  frizzled,  oily.  In  the  faint  smell  of  frying  and  of 
face-powder,  was  something  unseating  to  his  brain. 
.  .  .  He  loathed  himself,  was  mad.  Exactly  thus 
he  had  showed  his  prime  weakness  in  the  old  days.  Had 
he  forgotten  his  regeneration  by  the  North?  Chas- 
tened by  its  valorous  lessons,  could  he  now  be  so  cor- 
rupted and  vitiated,  surrender  to  the  sterile  and  the 
unfit? 

Suddenly  the  touch*  of  her  blue  silk  scarf  seemed  to 
burn  him.  He  was  seized  by  a  fierce  revulsion.  He 
stiffened,  under  a  terrible  recoil  of  conscience ;  of  trust, 
of  loyalty.  He  thrust  her  roughly  from  him,  and  turn- 
ing without  a  word  or  glance  behind,  leaped  to  the  door. 

The  cold  re-enveloped  him.  In  the  distance  arose  the 
lingering,  heart-piercing  wail  of  wolf-dogs. 


330      THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

He  reviled  himself,  in  the  name  of  Martha,  of  Clara, 
who  had  faith  in  him,  the  partner  of  his  great  thirst! 
He  felt  a  wave  of  the  love  she  bore  and  its  all-effacing 
potency.  He  had  almost  yielded,  to  no  more  than 
the  physical  clamour  of  a  long-pent  vitality.  This 
Sydney  was  a  Delilah  of  the  North,  the  sort  Dick  feared 
—  likely  Dick  had  never  known  a  purer.  No  wonder 
the  boy's  grasp  of  womankind  was  so  unformulated  and 
distrustful.  It  was  he  who  needed  a  good  woman's  love 
to  requite  his  dumb  aspiring. 

At  last  Gail  found  the  empty  stable,  a  large  frame 
building  clumsily  covered  with  tar-paper.  The  key 
that  Borden  had  given  him  fitted  a  small  door  beside 
the  closed  big  ones.  He  felt  his  way  up  a  narrow 
stair.  In  the  dusty,  icy  loft,  he  discerned  an  electric 
lamp,  and  switched  it  on.  Dog  harnesses,  broken  oat- 
sacks,  pack-saddles,  a  couple  of  scythes  were  strewn 
about.  A  bran-like  film  covered  everything.  In  one 
corner  red  blankets  were  jumbled  on  a  cot.  His  head 
burned  and  throbbed,  as  he  undid  his  pack.  He  had 
been  in  Chickaman  four  hours,  but  it  seemed  to  him  as 
many  years. 

Gail  lodged  here  until  mid- April,  nursing  his  dreams 
of  gold  and  Clara,  earning  an  insufficient  grub-stake  in 
Joe  Overheiser's  saloon. 

m 

From  this  night  on,  Len  Borden  pulled  up  on  his 
'drinking.  His  friends  in  the  Savoy  appeared  to  assume 
that  this  was  because  the  quarrel  which  he  had  had 
then  with  his  woman  actually  had  been  final,  and  that 
he  had  dropped  her.  With  the  reserve  of  sobriety,  he 
seldom  continued  his  confidences  to  Gail,  and  for  weeks 
their  friendship  remained  tentative. 


SYDNEY  331 

Toward  each  noon,  in  the  reek  of  stale  booze  and 
expectoration,  as  Gail  ended  bending  with  mop  and 
broom  over  the  filth  of  the  big  hall  behind  the  red  cur- 
tains —  sweeping  the  baize  crap  tables,  scattering  damp 
saw-dust  —  he  would  meet  Len  gulping  his  morning 
cocktail  at  the  bar.  Then,  after  soup  and  pie  at  the 
cross-eyed  man's,  Gail  would  wander  silent,  observant, 
along  the  glaring  street,  among  the  furred  multitude. 
It  increased  daily,  melting  into  the  "  Northern,"  the 
"  Tanana,"  the  "  Malemute,"  into  his  own  Savoy. 
There,  from  behind  Sig  Hamilton's  rail,  Gail  watched 
the  new-comers  to  the  camp  cluster  before  the  serious 
Joe,  as  Len,  loosening  his  nimble  tongue  with  rock-and- 
rye,  read  their  histories  from  feature  and  get-up,  sa- 
tirising each  with  a  playful  cynicism.  The  hollow- 
cheeked,  painted  ladies  dribbled  downstairs  to  their 
tragic  trade.  Newt-eyed  faro  dealers  in  black  alpaca 
slinked  behind  the  curtains. 

The  generous  Overheiser  usually  asked  Gail  to  sup- 
per. In  a  front  room  above,  off  the  long,  thin-parti- 
tioned corridor  with  its  many  doors,  he  ate  moose- 
steak  with  Sig  and  Len  also.  They  would  rally  Ah 
Fong,  the  cook,  as  a  squire  of  squaws,  because  he  traded 
the  meat  from  Siwashes.  But  Joe  never  spoke  of 
women;  they  palled  on  him,  Gail  judged,  as  indispen- 
sable vampires  in  his  business.  Yet  in  the  lapel  of  his 
cardigan  jacket  he  wore  the  button  photograph  of  a 
young  girl  with  her  hair  in  pig-tails.  She  was  his 
daughter  at  school  in  Los  Angeles,  Len  had  told  Gail, 
adding,  "  They  say  Joe  robbed  the  till  of  a  bar  down 
there,  but  he'd  shoot  himself  sooner  than  let  out  any 
fake  news  about  a  gold  strike." 

Afterwards,  Gail  often  visited  Sydney  "  up  the  slue." 
But  neither  one  encouraged  any  shameful  conduct.  At 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

first  Gail  believed  that  this  was  due,  on  her  part,  to  his 
failure  as  an  investment ;  on  his  own,  less  to  will  power 
than  to  that  numb  daze  which  overcomes  one  on  relaxing 
from  the  grind  of  the  winter  trail.  Later,  her  lack  of 
pretence  in  the  hollow  vanities  of  her  type  moved  his 
interest  and  curiosity  in  her  humanity.  She  said  that 
she  needed  a  friend.  She  failed  to  amplify  this;  so 
Gail  repudiated  an  ugly  suspicion  of  her  friendly  pur- 
poses, and  they  became  intimates,  on  a  basis  too  out- 
spoken even  for  altruism  on  his  part. 

He  would  sit  under  her  lamp,  to  the  tick  of  her  fake 
ormolu  clock,  as  her  hoarse,  plaintive  voice  ranged  from 
telling  of  her  speculations  in  diamond  rings  and 
"  jumped  "  town-lots,  to  her  adoration  of  "  Javver  " 
in  "  Les  Miserables."  But  Gail  was  as  reticent  about 
himself,  both  in  Alaska  and  on  the  outside,  as  he  was 
to  his  friends  of  the  Savoy,  where  no  rumour  of  his 
deeds  had  penetrated.  He  shrank  in  her  presence  from 
mentioning  the  boy  Arthur,  or  Mrs.  Mueller,  who  was 
"  decent  now,"  trying  to  sell  her  road-house  on  Cache 
Creek.  And  knowing  that  the  axiom  of  her  profession 
is  silence  regarding  its  male  victims,  neither  one  ever 
spoke  of  any  men  in  the  camp.  Yet  it  continued  to 
puzzle  Gail  why  she  had  cried  so  bitterly  on  the  night  of 
their  meeting,  encouraged  no  visitors  except  himself, 
and  sometimes  disappeared  from  Chickaman  for  days. 

One  evening  Len  came  to  supper,  drunk.  Generally 
so  garrulous,  he  sat  black  and  speechless,  scowling  at 
the  immaculate  Hamilton.  As  Gail  started  downstairs, 
Len  drew  him  aside,  and,  his  slant,  wide-apart  eyes  hazy 
with  emotion,  said  of  Sig:  "I'll  kill  that  pimp  .  .  . 
if  he  breaks  in  on  my  dill."  And  abruptly  dashed  be- 
low to  his  piano. 

This  was  the  first  word  that  Len  had  spoken  to  him 


SYDNEY  833 

about  the  woman  who  had  "  owned  "  him,  whom  Gail 
had  hardly  heard  reference  to  since  the  night  of  his 
arrival  in  Chickaman.  But  he  had  lately  observed  a 
growing  coolness  between  Len  and  the  barber.  And 
Sig's  ways  with  women  did  not  seem  to  be  most  men's. 
More  than  his  trade  had  enervated  him,  yet  not  physic- 
ally, for  he  would  boast  uncontradicted  of  his  prowess 
on  the  trail.  Gossip  charged  him  with  having  been  a 
Mormon  "  run  out  of  New  Mexico,"  and  as  a  silent 
partner  of  Big  Sadie,  who  loaned  the  other  girls  of  the 
house  cash  in  anticipation  of  their  harvests  in  per- 
centage checks. 

Tonight  as  Gail  approached  Sydney's,  men  were 
chopping  wood  in  many  of  the  yards  behind  the  little 
houses.  He  knew  that  later  he  might  meet  the  same 
beings  throwing  dice  downtown,  on  the  money  earned, 
thus  for  supplying  the  stoves  of  the  fluffed,  over- 
dressed creatures,  whom  he  could  see  through  the  win- 
dows with  shades  up,  reading  before  them.  Suddenly 
he  realised  that  he  had  come  to  consider  all  of  them 
aside  from  their  degradation,  as  adventurers  caught  in 
much  the  same  net  of  life  as  his  own. 

But  Sydney's  shade  also  was  up.  Never  before  had 
he  seen  it  so.  He  could  make  out  no  one  inside;  still, 
he  paused  with  an  odd  timidity  before  knocking.  But 
he  was  unprepared  for  the  surprise  that  followed.  The 
boy  Arthur,  startled  and  fragile  in  his  reindeer  furs, 
opened  the  door. 

A  tightness  struck  across  Gail's  throat.  "  I  thought 
you  were  up  on  Cache  with  your  mother,"  he  stam- 
mered. "Where's  the  other  —  Sydney?" 

"  Mother?  "  the  boy  asked  shyly.  A  quizzical  wrin- 
kle crossed  his  small  forehead.  Then,  recognising  Gail 
in  his  new  yellow  mackinaw,  his  brown  eyes  widened. 


334       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

He  broke  Gail's  spell  of  mingled  joy  and  apprehension 
by  adding  with  a  grin,  "  So  you  won't  need  my  clothes 
now.  Come  on  in." 

"  I  mean  her  friend,  who  lives  here."  The  boy  was 
alone. 

Arthur's  face  fell,  and  his  cheeriness  vanished.  He 
closed  the  door  behind  Gail,  with  a  mature  gesture  of 
welcome. 

"  Sit  down,  mister,"  said  the  child  gravely.  "  An' 
I'll  tell  you." 

Gail  sank  into  Sydney's  rocker,  stiffly,  his  blighting 
heart  in  his  mouth. 

"  Mrs.  Mueller  —  she's  pulling  out  for  Fairbanks  to- 
morrow," declared  Arthur,  manfully,  but  averting  his 
face  toward  the  stove.  "  An'  with  me.  We're  down 
staying  over  the  '  Malemute.'  " 

In  gathering  anger  for  his  blindness,  Gail  choked 
back  an  unreasoning,  instinctive  oath. 

"  But  she's  not  mother,"  cried  the  boy,  fretfully. 
"  This  is  mother's,  of  course." 

The  room  lurched  before  Gail.  He  felt  his  heart  go 
icy,  and  that  he  was  staring  interminably  through  a 
warm  mist. 

"  Come  here,"  he  said  thickly ;  but  the  boy,  with 
downcast  eyes,  revealed  only  his  quivering  lips. 

"Why  did  she  lie—?"  he  broke  out  aimlessly. 
"Why  didn't  she  teU  me  when  I  asked  her  in  the 
bath?  " 

"  You  better  ask  her  that  yourself,"  retorted  Arthur. 
"  Hadn't  you  oughter  know  ?  " 

"Don't!"  Gail  shielded  his  face  with  his  hands. 
The  boy  had  lifted  a  defiant  head.  A  sudden  stoniness 
in  his  young,  melting  eyes,  the  twitching  at  the  corners 
of  his  tender  mouth,  pierced  Gail  like  a  knife,  .  ,  . 


SYDNEY  335 

Born  dead  in  innocence !  The  infamy !  .  .  .  "  Then 
why  didn't  you  let  on?  "  he  cried. 

"  Mrs.  Mueller  said  that  if  I  ever  told  —  they'd 
lick  the  life  outen  me  —  the  both  of  them."  His  voice 
wavered  into  sobs,  and  he  flung  himself  into  Gail's  out- 
stretched arms. 

Gail  felt  the  pitiless  air  from  the  swamp  outside; 
heard  the  door  shut,  as  if  at  a  great  distance.  A  pale, 
swimming  vision  resolved  itself  into  Sydney  in  her  white 
hat  and  coat,  standing  before  him,  reaching  her  arms 
for  Arthur's  collar.  Her  hard,  round  cheeks  were 
drawn  and  livid,  her  eyes  half-closed.  Speechless,  she 
drew  him  away  from  Gail.  The  boy  yielded,  limply, 
as  Gail  fought  a  wild  impulse  to  strike  her  from  her 
child.  Then  the  woman  rasped, 

"  Arthur !  How  dared  you  to  come  here.  I  told  you 
never —  Get  out  now —  Oh!  I  can't  stand  it.  ... 
Gail,  help  me!" 

She  sank  upon  her  bed.  Gail  heard  the  boy  steal 
over  to  her,  and  their  lips  meet  briefly.  "  I  had  to 
come,  mother,"  he  said;  and  without  a  word  or  look 
toward  him,  Arthur  strode  through  the  door,  closing  it 
gently  behind  him. 


"I  thought  better  —  even  of  you,"  breathed  Gail, 
when  he  could  find  words. 

She  threw  off  her  coat,  flung  her  hat  on  the  floor, 
gave  a  rumpling  dab  at  her  bang,  and  began  throatily : 

"  We've  got  to  live,  we  women,  and  in  the  only  way 
we  know  how.  To  eat  and  keep  warm  like  other  crea- 
tures. There  in  the  bath  I  thought  I'd  lose  you,  if  you 
knew  who  Arthur  was,  as  I'd  just  lost  the  man  I  loved 
—  the  only  one  ever  —  by  telling  him," 


386       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"But  a  mother — "  Gail  lashed  her.  "A  mother 
like  that's  a  fiend." 

"  Don't  I  know  I  am?  "  she  muttered  on,  tossing  her 
arms.  "  I  be'n  called  that  before,  and  by  men  worse'n 
you.  I  sent  for  Arthur  from  the  Home  in  Juneau 
—  I  never  seen  him  since  he  was  born  there  eight  years 
ago  —  because  I  reckoned  I  could  hold  my  devil,  by 
stirring  the  father  feelings  in  him.  I  knew  a  girl  in 
Fairbanks  won  back  her  man  so.  But  his  seeing 
Arthur  only  made  him  chuck  me,  with  a  great  holler 
about  motherhood  and  decency.  Damn  your  educated 
boys.  They  never  play  the  game  like  a  woman  who  re- 
spects her  business." 

"  Sydney  1 "  pleaded  Gail. 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  seeing  Arthur  broke  me  up  just  as 
much,  too.  I  never  expected  that  just  the  sight  of  the 
little  feller  — "  she  paused,  overcome.  ..."  But  in 
the  bath  there  I  was  desperate  —  for  food  —  and  Fran- 
ces Mueller  egged  me  on  and  made  us  lie  to  you.  Mebbe 
you  thought  I  wasn't  hurted  and  hating  you  like  poison 
after  your  play  with  Arthur,  and  we'd  walked  here. 
But  hunger's  hunger,  and  the's  more  competition  in 
our  trade  —  even  by  squaws  —  than  folks  suspect.  I 
ain't  got  no  use  for  the  brand  of  girl  that  bluffs  she's 
better  than  her  job." 

"  You  were  crying  that  night  because  the  man  you 
loved  had  left  you  ?  " 

"For  my  devil?  No!  When  a  girl  like  us  loves  a 
feller,  it's  as  though  she  had  some  raw  place  inside  her. 
She  don't  cry  for  losing  him,  unless  she's  drunk. 
She  breaks  loose  and  rips  things  up,  sees  red  like  a 
man  and  shoots  to  kill.  But  I'd  done  all  that.  You've 
seen  me  tame  enough.  You  ought  to  catch  me  in  ac- 
tion. Men  thinks  us  fickle,  but  mostly  our  show  of  it 


SYDNEY  337 

is  —  torture."  She  stopped  short ;  her  voice  faltered, 
"  I  was  crying  that  night  because  I  was  having  to  give 
up  Arthur,  and  go  back  to  the  life." 

Gail  bent  his  head.  He  had  thought  that  he  under- 
stood the  hectic  passions  of  her  ilk.  But  this  dumb- 
founded him. 

"  Of  course  we  know  the  mother's  love,  the  same  as 
decent  women.  But  the  life  dulls  us.  The  business 
takes  it  out  of  you.  We  don't  get  any  chance.  .  .  . 
And  mebbe  I  don't  know  my  job,  or  haven't  any  right 
being  in  it.  Mebbe  I'm  too  much  a  woman,  or  not  sunk 
low  enough,  or  don't  know  you  hypocrites  of  men." 
She  broke  off  in  bitter  irony. 

"Have  I  been  —  that?"  enunciated  Gail,  after  a 
while. 

"  You?  "  she  smiled  blandly.  "  It  was  you  that  give 
me  the  first  straight  days  of  living  since  I  was  a  girl 
at  school  —  when  I  found  out  you  was  broke,  and  the 
kind  of  man  you  are.  It  was  you  saved  me  from  the 
river.  And  Frances,  by  taking  the  kid  and  giving  in  to 
grubstake  me  for  a  time.  But  now  she's  going  away, 
taking  Arthur  with  her.  I  can't  have  him  with  me, 
and  I've  got  to  go  back  —  or  starve." 

The  words  choked  her.  Her  small,  flint-blue  eyes 
filled.  Her  reddened  lips  trembled,  and  seeming  to 
shrivel  behind  the  paint,  all  her  shrewd  wantonness  ef- 
faced itself. 

Gail  tried  to  speak,  but  failed.  In  the  silence,  she 
jerked  up  her  head,  and  he  was  aware  of  the  ease  with 
which  she  pulled  herself  together. 

"  So  you  got  to  go  now,"  she  said  firmly,  rising. 
"  This  ends  it  for  us.  I'm  expecting  my  new  feller 
any  minute.  Didn't  you  see  the  shade  up?  " 

He  felt  suddenly  the  evanescence  of  all  her  emotion, 


338        THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

and  it  killed  his  pity.  After  all,  she  was,  as  she  said, 
blunted. 

He  groped  for  the  door.  The  lashing  cold  outside, 
under  the  lances  of  the  arctic  stars,  relievingly  pierced 
his  veins.  He  thought  of  Hocherda.  Sydney,  too,  was 
the  North's  toll.  But  she  had  survived.  Only  Arthur, 
to  forecast  his  life  in  the  Youngest  World  was  madden- 
ing. 

Was  she  so  irredeemable  ?  No  —  his  faith  in  woman 
was  too  strong.  Yet  why  should  her  perversions  con- 
cern him  and  his  sustaining  dreams?  His  softness,  as 
with  Tom  and  Jonesy,  had  caught  him  in  this  more 
deadening  web  of  life.  He  strove  to  make  his  mind  a 
blank,  and  started  back  to  the  heart  of  Chickaman, 
to  lose  himself  with  the  multitudes  inside  its  blear 
dives. 

But  at  the  second  corner,  he  passed  a  familiar  figure 
across  the  street,  headed  up  the  slue.  The  brown  derby 
and  the  fastidious  step  were  unmistakable  —  Sig  Ham- 
ilton's. A  horrid  certainty  seized  Gail.  Sydney  was 
waiting  for  the  barber.  Gail  could  not  leave  the  dis- 
trict. Three  times  he  started  back  along  the  walk  to- 
ward the  little  shacks,  but  returned  to  the  corner. 
Finally,  as  he  approached  Sydney's  house,  he  saw  that 
the  yellow  shade  was  now  down.  Hamilton  had  gone 
inside.  But  on  the  steps,  a  figure  lay  inert  and  huddled 
on  his  face.  His  heart  stood  still.  The  blind  fool 
he  had  been !  It  was  Len,  dead  drunk. 

Len,  Sydney's  "  devil  "  ! 

A  sudden,  destructive  idea  overcame  him.  He  lifted 
the  limp  man  in  his  arms,  carried  him  up  the  steps. 
Len  opened  his  eyes,  and  seeming  to  recognise  him, 
mumbled  Sydney's  name,  gratefully.  Then,  dropping 
him  on  the  threshold,  Gail  dealt  a  thundering  blow  with 


SYDNEY  339 

his  fist  on  the  door,  and  hearing  its  thin  timbers  crackle, 
leaped  down  the  steps  and  away. 


Behind  the  Savoy's  red  curtains,  under  the  stamped 
tin  ceiling,  Gail  circulated  through  the  indistinct,  sub- 
dued uproar  of  gambling;  of  strangle-hold  dancing  to 
the  agile  fingers  of  the  corpse-white  Lummis.  He  had 
no  hankering  for  the  soft,  gaunt-limbed  women,  dressed 
as  if  in  bathing  suits ;  as  to  Joe,  Gail  told  himself,  they 
were  too  much  a  part  of  his  daily  life  and  work  either 
to  repel  or  allure.  But  he  searched  the  men's  faces; 
avid,  resolute,  manly,  young;  faces  with  the  deep,  de- 
cisive lines,  which  made  them  so  sad  yet  undaunted,  of 
hardship  and  renunciation;  faces  flabby  and  sensual, 
sullen  and  desperate  from  having  winced  at  the  point 
of  surrender  to  the  somnolent  cold  —  gathered  in  that 
stale,  bluish  smoke,  and  the  odour  of  ill-cured  furs. 
Chips  clicked,  dice  bounded  softly;  chamois  pokes  of 
gold-dust  gently  thudded,  to  settle  or  invest,  on  the  oil- 
cloth of  the  dazing  wheels;  the  delicate  brass  scales 
tinkled.  They  who  played  at  once  became  silent  and 
conscious,  as  the  focus  of  gazing  walls  of  set  and  open- 
mouthed  faces,  whose  eyes  epitomised  all  the  drama  of 
human  credulity. 

Then,  in  one  corner,  broke  out  the  sudden  dispute. 
The  crowd  clustered;  and  Gail,  craning  over  its  edge, 
heard  the  thick  oaths,  saw  the  white,  corded  faces. 
Came  the  flash  and  report  of  the  gun,  the  lights  crash- 
ing out  at  another  (fired  by  an  onlooker) ;  shrieks  from 
the  dolled  dancers  wearily  swinging  at  the  edges  of 
death.  .  .  .  Joe  hulked  among  them;  instantly,  with 
a  strong-armed  litheness  amazing  in  such  a  man,  re- 
stored a  tense,  cowed  order,  as  though  perfunctorily. 


340       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

And  with  the  inherent  sanity  of  all  mobs,  this  one  to- 
night dissolved  toward  the  bar,  instead  of  to  Gash's  hos- 
pital. 

It  was  animal,  masculine,  passionate;  there  was  none 
of  the  brooding  acquiescence  of  Occidental  Avenue,  of 
the  frontier  in  its  decay.  Men  selfishly  exulted  in  their 
bodies,  seeking  a  crude  and  thoughtless  happiness  — 
violently,  if  challenged  —  in  this  absorbing  realm  of 
gold  and  chance.  No  man's  brawn  was  pledged  to  any 
but  himself;  none  sauntered,  slouching,  dejected,  with 
sinews  for  sale,  their  faces  graven  by  isolation  from 
home  and  kin.  If  the  chug  of  a  No.  £  drill  beat  in  any 
one's  head,  it  was  striking  open  sesame  to  his  own  el- 
dorado.  All  their  failures  had  ever  been  paid  in  the 
spur  of  a  blinder  courage,  the  cheer  of  more  extrava- 
gant dreams.  No  man  demanded  idleness  of  the  world 
at  a  chosen  wage,  nor  grudged  the  success  of  his  fellows. 
No  flavour  was  abroad  of  waste,  or  greed,  or  the  bluster 
of  vain  boasts  and  paper  credit.  Life  was  rooted  in 
the  one  indomitable  faith  of  gold,  burning  in  all  men's 
blood.  An  eager  restlessness,  a  jealous,  unflinching 
zeal,  bound  them  to  .the  enchanted  heritage  of  our  last, 
heroic  empire. 

Yet  the  breed  of  Hocherda  —  wastrels  of  the  older 
camps  —  mingled  here,  indistinguishably,  with  Gail's 
brother  voyagers  from  the  winter  vast.  All,  in  this 
hiatus  before  the  stampede  south  to  the  Yanaga,  ap- 
peared as  in  a  mirror  that  distorted  slightly ;  that  cast 
over  life  a  deceiving  film,  which,  beside  its  starkness  on 
the  trail,  rearoused  Gail's  reluctance  on  entering  the 
town  a  month  ago.  Was  not  life  here  furtively  a  men- 
ace to  one  who  clung  to  such  inordinate  dreams  as  his? 
He  saw  himself  struggling  with  Bob  upon  Mt.  Lincoln, 
or  hearing  John  Hartline's  indictment  against  Lamar. 


SYDNEY  341 

A  disgust  filled  him.  Yet  did  the  deadening  hum  all 
about  block  the  immortality  of  any  man  who  did  not 
deserve  to  die,  whose  future  already  was  not  blasted? 
Here  was  the  field  for  neither  charity  nor  death.  And 
not  here  could  be  worked  out  his  destiny,  and  the  future 
of  the  Youngest  World.  He  must  be  gone  into  the 
wilderness ! 

Gail  slipped  out  into  the  cold.  He  had  not  yet 
earned  half  enough  for  a  grubstake.  No  men  had  of- 
fered him  an  outfit,  to  stake  claims  for  them  under 
powers  of  attorney.  He  saw  himself  hardly  closer  to 
the  Yanaga's  gravels  than  when  Clara,  or  Len,  had 
touched  his  visions  with  their  talk  of  gold.  Yet  these, 
visiting  him  incessantly,  had  not  blighted.  As  he 
crunched  back  to  the  stable,  he  thought  of  Arthur  and 
Sydney.  A  tender  despair  filled  his  soul.  And  then 
he  found  himself  laughing  grimly,  irresponsibly,  at  the 
thought  of  Sig  behind  that  yellow  shade,  facing  Len  — 
and  the  quality  of  passion  which  Sydney  had  confessed 
for  him. 

VI 

Near  noon  the  next  morning,  Gail  leaned  against  the 
Savoy's  barber  pole  in  a  throng  of  argonauts.  Chicka- 
man  now  overflowed  with  them.  Each  day  in  increas- 
ing numbers  they  arrived  and  hit  the  Yanaga  trail. 
But  neither  Len  nor  Sig  had  shown  up  at  Overheiser's. 
Outside  it,  in  the  glare  of  Roosevelt  Avenue,  two  outfits 
on  the  eve  of  pulling  out  —  a  gang  of  Minnesota  Nor- 
wegians and  a  party  of  French  Kanucks  in  scarlet 
toques  and  sashes  —  were  matching  their  dog-teams. 
Each  lead-dog,  hitched  singly  to  his  sled,  was  trying 
to  budge  the  rising  mound  of  flour-sacks  that  men  piled 
on  it.  Bets  were  being  staked.  The  accents  of  two 


THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

races,  grotesque  in  their  excitement,  rose  above  the 
babel  of  advice  and  comment  from  the  furred  spectators 
on  the  board-walk ;  especially  of  a  lank,  red-faced  Sow- 
egian  in  a  green-flowered  mackinaw,  and  of  a  scrubby 
little  habitant  with  a  black  moustache,  addressed  as  Sin- 
jon,  whose  lithe  and  snow-white  malemute  got  a  favour- 
ite's encouragement.  One  Jim  McTighe,  hang- jawed 
and  in  a  patched  parka  (a  bucket-shop  king,  in  Alaska 
for  his  health),  was  making  book  on  the  contest,  ming- 
ling with  the  crowd,  insistent  in  his  coarse,  biting  wit 
which  had  defined  him  half  as  a  buffoon,  half  as  the 
philosopher  of  camp. 

But  as  always  in  this  multitude,  Gail  sharpened  his 
ears  to  the  hushed  undercurrents  of  talk  that  never 
failed  to  hold  him  spellbound  and  prick  his  dreams ;  the 
talk  of  gold  and  bedrock,  discovery  stakes,  porphyry 
and  mica-schist ;  of  dogs  and  their  intelligence,  endur- 
ance, as  against  horses,  whose  price  was  fabulous. 
But  today  for  the  first  time  his  faith  in  triumphing 
through  these  things  began  to  flag,  and  a  desperation 
alloyed  his  dreams  of  eldoradoes. 

Then  from  an  edge  of  the  crowd  he  sighted  another 
dog-team  down  the  street,  hitched  up  and  waiting  in 
front  of  the  "  Malemute."  As  he  started  idly  to  walk 
toward  it,  two  figures  emerging  from  the  resort 
checked  his  steps.  One  was  a  woman,  striding  man- 
like in  her  red  parka:  Mrs.  Mueller.  She  led  Arthur 
by  the  hand.  Gail's  heart  began  to  throb  and  a  hot 
lump  rose  in  his  throat.  He  could  not,  could  not, 
go  to  them.  Why  should  either  the  little  shaver  or  he, 
each  so  without  sentiment,  suffer  at  a  parting?  A  stout 
man  in  a  freighter's  worn  and  tawny  furs  whipped  up 
the  dogs,  and  Gail  watched  them,  through  the  mist  be- 
fore his  eyes,  swing  away  in  a  cloud  of  snow. 


SYDNEY  343 

Turning,  he  spotted  Sig  Hamilton.  The  barber  was 
slinking  through  the  assemblage  before  the  Savoy.  He 
limped;  and  as  he  vanished  into  the  side-door  that  led 
to  the  rooms  upstairs,  Gail  could  not  curb  his  relish  at 
the  derby  hat  battered  and  squashed  upon  his  black 
ear-mufflers,  and  the  bandanna  that  swathed  one  eye. 

Then  an  arm  was  thrust  through  his,  dragging  him 
forward.  Gail  looked  up  into  Len's  clean-cut,  pale  face. 

"  I  want  to  talk  with  you,"  he  said.     "  I  got  to." 

A  roar  of  voices  around  many  erect  and  fluffy  tails 
greeted  the  climax  of  the  dog-contest.  But  Len,  silent 
and  absorbed,  led  Gail  into  the  saloon  and  behind  the 
red  curtains.  There  was  no  liquor  on  his  breath,  yet 
his  frank,  uncertain  eyes  showed  how  febrile  and  dis- 
traught he  was.  He  sat  at  the  battered  piano  in  the 
sour  hall  and  touched  the  keys. 

"  That  herd  out  there  — "  he  began,  satirically. 
"  '  Ole  Olesons  '  that  can't  write  the  bearings  on  their 
claim-stakes,  but  see  themselves  back  in  Saint-e  Paul, 
getting  the  state  governor  drunk.  They  talk  like  every 
place  they  pitch  their  stoves  'ud  melt  the  snow  over  an- 
other Nome.  .  .  .  The  hell  with  this  Yanaga !  It's  like 
all  the  rest  of  these  strikes.  Fattening  to  Overheiser's 
pocket,  and  every  fool's  dreams." 

He  started  in  to  crumble  the  repute  and  promise  of 
the  Yanaga  as  a  gold-field.  Toward  it,  for  the  first 
time,  a  vein  of  sneering  and  grim  bitterness  darkened 
the  usual  light  touch  of  his  cynicism  and  playful  hu- 
mour which  had  rather  endeared  him  to  most  argo- 
nauts. Then,  still  vouchsafing  no  confidence  concern- 
ing Sig  and  Sydney,  he  veered  to  telling  of  his  boyhood 
in  Omaha,  but  without  mention  of  his  parents ;  and  of 
studying  at  a  law  college.  Next  of  two  years  with 
breeders  and  jockeys  on  a  racetrack  circuit ;  of  the  acid- 


344       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

throwing  in  a  Chicago  hotel  over  a  pool-room  man's 
wife,  which  forced  his  enlistment  in  the  Philippines ;  his 
coming  North  as  "  scout  "  in  an  Army  exploring  party. 
He  had  stayed  on  here,  enslaved  by  women,  drink,  and 
the  fitful,  bewildering  glamour  of  new  placers  —  in  that 
careless,  hectic  life  of  rush  camps,  whose  intensity  of  the 
moment,  Gail  saw,  divining  alike  his  stamina  and  weak- 
ness, alone  made  life  tolerable  to  him. 

"  And  any  time  I  wanted  I  could  go  home,"  he  con- 
fessed, finally,  but  with  an  impulsive  effort,  as  he  mock- 
ingly played  the  last  bars  of  a  "  mother  "  song.  "  But 
something  always  keeps  me.  Often  nights  I  try  to 
figure  out  what  it  is.  Yet  I'm  always  stumped,  un- 
less — "  he  hesitated,  waving  a  trembling,  cigarette- 
stained  hand  to  the  white  peaks  in  the  promised  land  of 
the  Yanaga,  dimly  visible  through  the  grimy  window, 
"  unless  the  look  and  feeling  in  hills  like  them  has  a 
power  — "  He  paused,  suddenly  serious ;  but  only 
further  goaded  Gail's  amazement  by  adding :  "  Yet 
fake  or  no,  I'm  going  into  that  Yanaga  country,  right 
off." 

"  There  alone?  "  asked  Gail,  his  eyes  intent  on  the 
foul  floor,  his  head  awhirl  with  envy. 

"  Anyway,  with  none  of  this  crowd,"  Len  asserted. 
"  I  ain't  the  part  of  them  that  you  are.  They  don't 
know  whether  to  laugh  or  shoot  me  when  I  '  pan '  their 
dead-sure  nugget  talk.  They  favour  me  because  they 
think  I'm  gutless,  and  it  always  touches  their  pity  to 
see  a  man  owned  by  a  rounder.  But  they  don't  like  me 
because  they  suspect  I  get  money  from  the  Senator. 
They've  seen  enough  of  remittance  men  down  on  the 
Coast.  Of  course  I  do  cash  in  from  the  old  man,  or  I 
couldn't  have  bought  this  outfit." 

"Outfit  — already?" 


SYDNEY  345 

"  Doing  what  else  on  the  quiet  all  these  sober  morn- 
ings, but  buying  dogs  and  grub  and  truck?  "  he  de- 
manded. "  There's  probably  nothing  in  it  for  either 
of  us.  I'm  not  wise  to  you,  either,  except  that  you  seem 
hard  and  honest  and  different  from  the  rest  here. 
What  odds?  But  will  you  come  in  with  me  as  a  part- 
ner? That's  the  proposition.  It's  my  outfit.  Well, 
we'll  go  halves  on  the  yellow  stuff  we  find." 

Gail  felt  all  his  veins  fill  and  burn.  Would  he !  It 
was  unbelievable.  Exuberant,  inordinate  anticipations 
swept  him ;  a  host  of  intimations  that  now  all  his  long- 
ing and  aspiration  would  be  attained.  Yet  he  was  so 
dazed  and  overcome  that  he  did  not  grasp  the  full  mean- 
ing in  this  good  fortune  of  which  he  had  so  long  de- 
spaired, or  even  link  Clara  with  it,  until  after  he  had 
returned  to  the  stable.  He  did  not  know  in  what  terms 
he  eagerly  accepted  and  thanked  Len,  whose  next  words 
that  Gail  heard  were: 

"  Then  show  up  in  front  of  here  early  tomorrow. 
Joe  Overheiser'll  have  the  team  loaded  and  ready." 
He  rose  from  the  worn  plush  stool.  "  I'm  off  now  to 
putting  the  last  touches  to  my  woman." 

"  Her?"  Gail  started  at  the  expected  subject,  now 
reduced  to  insignificance.  "You  mean  Sydney?" 

"  Right !  And  I  want  to  thank  you  for  what  you  did 
last  night,  and  for  being  so  straight  and  decent  with 
her  while  she  and  I  were  on  the  outs.  I  guess  that  bar- 
ber won't  be  seeing  out  of  his  right  lamp  for  a  week," 
he  chuckled.  "  It  wasn't  I  that  flicked  him,  either. 
It  was  she  —  you  know  the  ways  of  the  breed  —  after 
I  told  her  I'd  come  back  and  live  with  her  for  keeps." 

"  But  you're  not,"  exclaimed  Gail  with  misgiving,  "  if 
we're  hitting  the  trail." 

"  On  your  life,  no !  "  laughed  Len.     "  It's  a  plant. 


346       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

But  I'm  making  her  think  I  stick  by  her.  I  ain't  got 
any  nerve  to  break  away  in  the  open  paddock.  She'd 
kick  up  so.  Can't  you  see  her  fly  off  the  handle,  finding 
she's  left  at  the  post?  If  I  stayed  on  here  I'd  kill  that 
woman." 

"  You  think  it's  safe  to  '  con  '  her?  "  Gail  interposed. 
"  She  told  me  how  she  feels  toward  you." 

"  Don't  teach  me  about  women,"  broke  in  Len,  mak- 
ing for  the  red  curtains.  "  And  fix  up  your  dunnage 
for  daylight." 

All  that  afternoon  Gail,  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  spent 
his  earnings  buying  new  snow-shoes,  socks,  snow-glasses, 
tobacco.  Overheiser  had  gone  up  on  Cache  Creek  to 
trade  furs,  so  he  ate  at  the  cross-eyed  man's,  and  re- 
turned early  to  the  stable  to  patch  up  his  trail  clothes. 
He  was  in  the  midst  of  this,  sewing  a  rip  in  the  sleeve 
of  the  fringed  rawhide  jacket  that  Hartline  had  given 
him,  reflecting  in  his  still  exalted  mood  upon  that  inde- 
finable quality  in  himself  which  seemed  to  draw  men  to 
him,  to  make  him  the  undeserving  means  (as  with  Tom 
Guiteau)  of  their  regeneration,  when  he  heard  the  soft 
yet  heavy  thud  of  moccasins  running  swiftly  up  the 
stairs. 

No  step  but  his  own  had  touched  them  in  the  month 
that  he  had  lodged  in  the  dusty  disorder  of  the  loft. 
It  could  be  none  other  than  Nixon  Mac,  at  last  return- 
ing; and  in  a  moment  a  big  red-haired  Scotsman  in  a 
round  otter  cap  and  with  a  shoe-brush  beard  stood  be- 
fore him,  vociferously  pronouncing  that  name  and  Gail's 
own. 

"  Mak'd  yourself  the  home,  son,  I  hope,"  he  said  with 
a  gruff  kindliness,  throwing  off  his  red-lined  leather 
j  acket,  and  unstrapping  the  telescope  bag  which  he  had. 
"  I  kotched  a  sight  av  Borden  down  to  Joe's." 


SYDNEY  347 

"  I  owe  the  both  of  you  a  lot,"  Gail  responded  con- 
sciously. "  Len  and  I  pull  out  for  the  Yanaga  tomor- 
row." 

Mack  turned  and  eyed  him.  "  With  that  dude  — 
yer  tellin'  me  ?  "  he  said  doubtfully,  rubbing  his  large 
nose.  "Ain't  it  rayther  past  time  fer  him?  Yanaga, 
hey?  "  he  resumed  in  reflection,  pulling  a  moose-hide 
poke  from  the  valise.  "  I'm  flyin'  in  from  there  a-foot. 
Mind  to  this  —  from  them  square-head  locators. 
Thirty  ounces  for  mickle  500  pounds  of  flour."  And 
he  poured  a  stream  of  coarse  gold  into  the  cover  of  the 
bag. 

Gail's  bosom  swelled.  Even  in  the  dim  light  the 
rough  peas  and  flat  slugs  of  yellow  metal  seemed  to 
blind  his  bulging  eyes.  He  yielded  to  all  his  -latent 
fever  of  acquisition,  set  throbbing  by  Len,  which  had 
transfigured  the  past  hours.  It  seemed  that  already 
this  granular  radiance  was  his  own  possession,  the  tangi- 
ble crown  of  a  splendid  life  ahead.  It  cast  over  him 
an  hypnotic  spell,  which  distorted  all  sense  of  the  silent 
time  for  which  his  sight  was  rooted  on  the  gold.  And 
then,  finally,  there  broke  through  his  dazzlement,  the 
deeper,  life-fulfilling  import  of  his  new  future.  And 
that  dawned  slowly  and  reproachfully  through  the  haze 
of  his  exalted  state,  and  he  revealed  the  core  and  cause 
of  his  elation  in  words  that  halted. 

"  Mark  how  they're  dark  nuggets,  like  the  Forty- 
mile  stuff,"  said  the  Scotch  freighter,  at  last. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  panted  Gail.  "  But  are  there  any  out- 
fits coming  in  there  from  the  south?  From  Cook  Inlet 
—  Beluga  —  by  way  of  Tsana  River?  Any  women?" 
he  added,  trembling. 

"  Lots  of  them,  mon,  lots.  And  however  tough," 
Mac  grinned,  oblivious  of  Gail's  excitement,  as  he  re- 


348       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

placed  the  treasure  in  its  sack,  "  I  call  them  the  arystoc- 
racy  of  any  stampede.  They  give  it  a  homelike  fla- 
vour." 

"  You  didn't  see,  or  hear  of  a  girl  — "  Gail  blurted, 
lifting  a  burning  gaze,  "  with  yellow  eyes  —  and  no 
partner  .  .  .  named  Hartline?  " 

As  he  waited,  breathless,  for  the  answer,  Gail  saw  a 
fleeting  look  of  tenderness  and  understanding  suffuse 
Mac's  ruddy  features. 

"  Hartline,  of  the  rustlers  that  shot  up  Charles  La- 
mar  over  on  the  Atna  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  note  of  rev- 
erence. "  John  Hartline's  wife  ?  " 

"  The  sister."  Gail  felt  his  face  flood  scarlet,  but 
he  maintained  his  stare. 

"  Hartline  was  fighting  for  this  country,  for  you  an* 
me,  boy,"  declared  Mac  awesomely;  and  swallowing 
once,  he  looked  away,  as  though  yielding  to  a  sudden 
shyness.  "  To  be  honest,  I  saw  no  one  o'  that  name," 
he  went  on,  incisively.  "  But  if  she's  your  girl,  and 
you  expect  her  in  the  deestrict,  from  what  I've  heard  o' 
the  blood  in  her  kin,  and  o'  you,  in  the  hour  I'm  back 
in  town,  you  ain't  to  be  disappointed.  .  .  .  Now  I'm 
oot  fer  a  while,  rustling  steak  and  coffee,"  and  he  van- 
ished down  the  stairway. 

A  delicious  giddiness  swept  Gail.  Gold  in  his 
grasp  —  Clara  on  the  Yanaga!  A  hot  band  pressed 
upon  his  temples.  His  heart  throbbed  wildly.  Never 
had  he  faced  such  glory,  not  even  in  the  instant  when 
his  gun  had  felled  Lamar  in  proving  the  teachings  of 
Bob  Snowden  and  the  North.  .  .  .  Gods!  His  ache 
for  perpetuity,  his  gospel  of  charity  and  violence,  of 
sympathy  and  hardness,  pivoted  upon  gold  and  Clara. 
His  surging  thoughts  drew  them  each  into  a  single  fo- 
cus. No  shadow  of  Lena,  or  sense  of  guilt  that  he  could 


SYDNEY  349 

yet  be  bound  to  her,  now  broke  in  to  blight  or  darken 
his  brave  and  perfect  certainties.  He  was  beginning 
life  anew,  in  all  the  wisdom  which  this  land  had  bared 
to  him,  in  behalf  of  the  multitudes  bound  to  the  Young- 
est World,  of  their  unswerving,  creative  patience, 
their  formless  thirst  for  immortality.  He  would  become 
their  Moses;  the  North  had  chosen  him.  It  could  not 
withhold  his  final  guerdon.  Clara  would  give  him  a 
young  breathing  body,  formed  of  their  own  blood  and 
tissue.  She  must  .  .  .  must  .  .  .  must! 

For  hours,  glaring  into  the  filmy  dimness  of  the  loft, 
at  the  blankets,  harnesses,  bales,  saddles,  in  their  very 
familiarness  unreal,  Gail  lay  inert  with  wide-parted 
lips,  striving  to  subdue  these  cosmic,  palpitating  fanta- 
sies. He  found  that  he  had  switched  off  the  grimy 
lamp,  cast  himself  on  the  red  blankets.  He  felt  that  he 
could  never  sleep  again,  till  at  his  goal.  Once 
strident  snores  conveyed  that  Macdonald  had  returned, 
during  a  lapse  of  consciousness  (Gail  told  himself)  from 
his  very  self-intoxication.  Without  routing  him  from 
the  cot,  the  Scotsman  had  kindly  turned  into  his  sleep- 
ing bag  on  the  floor. 

From  outside  the  prolonged,  hideous  howl  of  wolf- 
dogs,  the  shouts  of  a  drunkard  seeking  his  bunk-house, 
entered  the  ghostly  snow-light.  A  golden  pallor 
suffused  the  one  frosted  window.  Gail  got  up, 
dressed  quickly  in  the  buckskins  of  his  killing,  his 
wanderings  and  Hocherda,  shouldered  his  dunnage, 
and  slipped  out  past  the  sleeping  Mac,  down  into  the 
street. 

The  snow  of  the  surrounding  hills  seemed  to  lift  slant 
shafts  of  rosy  light,  to  cry  defiance  at  the  earth's  muf- 
fled immobility.  At  one  corner,  as  Gail  hurried  to  the 
Savoy,  he  heard  the  drip  from  eaves,  and  though  spring 


350       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

was  still  a  month  away,  he  believed  that  he  felt  in  his 
nostrils  a  faint  and  balmy  aroma. 

vm 

The  stout  and  pock-marked  Joe  Overheiser  stood  in 
a  knot  of  men  elaborately  dressed  for  the  trail  in  flat 
astrakan  caps  and  embroidered  moccasins.  Gail  recog- 
nised them  as  the  "  operators  "  of  a  Tacoma  quartz 
syndicate,  whom  he  had  heard  were  pulling  out  that 
morning.  Len's  dog-team  was  ready,  the  sled  piled 
high,  and  his  partner's  sable  parka  crowning  its  tar- 
paulins ;  the  dogs  —  big  black  Tanana  malemutes  with 
stumpy  tails  and  white  "  shirt-fronts  " —  dozing  prone 
in  the  snow. 

Down  the  street,  he  saw  Len  approaching.  He  was 
walking  unsteadily,  his  head  down,  staring  at  the  board- 
walk. 

"  If  he  c'd  see  through  the  snow,"  said  Joe,  "  I'd  call 
him  mighty  int'rested  in  the  wood-ticks  laying  in  them 
planks." 

"  She  got  me  full  all  right,"  announced  Borden, 
drunkenly,  to  them,  lifting  red  and  watery  eyes  in 
greeting.  "  Sydney's  going  —  to  start  up  a  house.  .  .  . 
Hell  of  a  good-bye." 

"  You  didn't  let  on  how  we  were  pulling  out  ?  "  de- 
manded Gail. 

"  It  was  likely  Sig  who  told  her,"  said  Joe  dryly. 

"  Nop.  She  wheedled  it  out  of  me,"  stammered  Len, 
inspecting  his  outfit.  "  Never  was  any  good  with 
women,  nor  understood  'em.  They  always  play  me. 
But  I  can  drive  dogs.  You  a'ready,  Mr.  Gabriel 
Thain?  .  .  .  Gee!  Haw!"  He  reached  for  his  raw- 
hide whip ;  but  stumbling,  turned  quickly  upon  the 


SYDNEY  351 

crowd  that  was  collecting,  and  shouted,  "  Yah !  I'm 
bound  for  the  devil  —  th'  Yanaga !  " 

Gail's  jaw  dropped;  his  whole  frame  was  shaking. 
"  You  ain't  going  back  on  me  ?  "  his  tense  voice  spoke 
out  before  the  silent  onlookers. 

"I  —  you  — "  Len's  blear  sight  strove  to  take  in 
Gail,  his  mind  to  clear  itself.  "  No,  pardner,  you  bet  I 
ain't,"  he  said  thickly.  "  And  if  I  do?  Remember  the 
team's  yours  —  keep  it  —  with  blessings  —  yours  — 
hike  there  b'  yourself  —  come  back  millionaire.  .  .  . 
Sydney  won't  stand  for  my  quitting  her." 

Joe  nudged  Gail  and  nodded  confirmingly.  "  Take 
it."  "  We're  witnesses."  "  Gettin'  out  of  yer  partner- 
ship cheap."  Voices  arose  in  the  throng,  which  so  well 
knew  Len. 

It  sent  up  a  half  cheer,  half  shout.  All  had  turned, 
and  were  looking  up  the  street.  Gail's  heart  stopped 
at  the  sight  there.  Sydney,  in  her  squirrel  coat,  under 
her  waving  white  ostrich  plumes.  She  was  striding  an- 
grily past  the  Tanana  drug-store.  Len  staggered,  and 
reached  for  Gail's  shoulder.  She  was  close  upon  them, 
her  hard  features  drawn  and  set,  small  blue  eyes  con- 
tracted but  with  no  doll-like  innocence,  in  their  cru- 
ellest wantonness.  The  crowd  parted,  closed  her  in, 
then  fell  back.  Her  gaze  fixed  on  Gail,  seemed  to  flinch, 
as  she  struggled  vainly  for  words,  colouring  above  her 
rouge,  maybe  in  shame.  Then,  facing  Borden,  now 
quivering  and  collapsed,  she  burst  into  shrill  vitupera- 
tion. 

"You.  ...  You  dirty  welcher!  .  .  .» 

She  seized  the  dog-whip  from  the  sledge,  raising  her 
arm  cracked  it  once  in  the  air,  and  fell  to  her  job. 

The  company  stood  rooted,  in  a  deadly  stillness.     It 


S52       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

seemed  recognised  that  it  was  not  for  them  to  interfere ; 
that,  by  some  ages-dead  treaty  of  the  warring  sexes, 
the  woman  should  fulfil  such  a  prerogative  as  valiantly 
as  the  man  must  take  his  medicine. 

He  was  drunk  and  she  cold  sober.  That  was  part 
of  the  loathsomeness.  The  dogs  stirred  in  the  snow, 
rose  and  stretched  their  dark  bodies;  cast  somnolent, 
questioning  eyes  upon  the  brutal  humans,  and  began  to 
whine  as  if  in  protest. 

His  hat  fell  off,  showing  his  pale,  curly  hair,  rumpled 
youthfully.  Her  mussed  bang  ejected  the  big,  woolly 
sausage  of  a  "  rat."  But  no  one  guffawed. 

"  Give  it  to  him !  "  yelled  a  voice.     "  Go  to  it,  Lulu !  " 

The  sharp,  elastic,  explosive  lashing  upon  Len's  khaki 
trousers,  his  face,  his  hands,  continued,  as  she  whipped 
and  whipped. 

She  led  him  down  the  street  by  the  collar,  the  crowd 
following,  still  silent. 

Once  Borden  turned,  and  shouted  back  —  "  Take  the 
outfit.  ...  I  ain't  a-going.  .  .  ." 

Gail  and  Overheiser  stood  alone. 

"  He  knew  he  wasn't,"  said  Joe.  "  He  never  meant 
to." 

Gail  pulled  himself  together,  ripped  out  an  oath  that 
seemed  to  tear  him  open,  and,  jumping  on  the  sled, 
urged  the  willing  dogs  off  toward  the  trail. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
BREAK-UP  AND  BEGINNING 


HE  stood  ankle-deep,  alone;  in  the  melting  snow.  The 
open  tarpaulin  of  his  camp  was  guyed  to  a  big  spruce, 
against  which  leaned  his  snow-shoes,  their  gut  thongs 
mushy  and  rotten.  He  had  worn  them  for  the  last  time. 
The  dark  space  melted  by  his  camp-fire  had  been  mys- 
teriously enlarging,  under  the  burning  May  sun  that 
now  rose  at  three  o'clock  to  shame  the  embers  into  skele- 
ton ash.  Their  subtle  aroma  of  poplar  filled  the  air; 
but  incense  hung  all  about.  The  swelling  cottonwood 
buds  were  censers  of  the  balm-o'-Gilead ;  the  black,  leafy 
soil,  the  reluctant  snow,  raised  a  misty,  penetrating 
exhalation,  a  spirituous  assurance  of  the  world's  new^ 
birth  and  the  restless  wheel  of  time. 

Spring!  Earth  stifled  with  the  spring.  Yonder  on 
the  river  bank  the  pale,  smooth-trunked  aspens  were 
tenderly  a-glitter  with  young-greenness,  even  though 
drifts  yet  banked  them.  In  their  tops  ravens  —  shiny, 
blue-black  specks  —  lurched  and  made  a  gulping  mut- 
ter, on  the  vain  watch  for  the  first  run  of  salmon.  From 
somewhere  came  the  sonorous  honks  of  unseen  geese. 
Overhead,  V  after  V  of  ducks,  a  mighty  procession, 
plodded  northward,  each  flock  like  a  pair  of  huge  shears 
ripping  through  the  milk-blue  sky.  Close  to  hovered 
a  cloud  of  insects,  as  if  the  snow  had  spawned  them.  A 
mosquito  sang  in  Gail's  ear.  He  slapped  it ;  and  began 

to  load  his  back-pack  for  the  endless,  lonely  march. 

353 


354       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

To  think! —  a  week  back  the  world  lay  inert  and 
muffled,  in  that  mute  and  brittle  cold  which  denied  the 
very  thought  of  warmth  and  sap  and  life.  Now,  as  if 
touched  by  the  magic  of  a  single  hour,  the  North  raised 
this  hallelujah  of  them!  Upstream,  behind  the  white 
saw-edges  of  the  foot-hills,  sprang  the  distant,  dazing 
alps,  emanations  distorted  in  a  crinkling  sun-blaze. 
There  the  river,  widening  into  a  network  of  countless 
threads,  raucous  and  coffee-brown,  drew  from  the  crum- 
bling ice  and  gravel  cliffs,  the  five-mile-wide  face  of  its 
aweing  glacier.  But  the  spell  of  winter  was  unbroken 
below  this  island  in  the  Tsana  River  where  Gail  was 
camped.  Its  channels  gathered  around  him  into  one 
great  trunk,  plunged  between  the  dark  walls  of  a  sud- 
den canyon,  under  the  dumb  ice  of  November.  And 
thence,  all  the  way  to  the  coast  at  Cook  Inlet,  to  Beluga 
on  its  lower  shores,  the  Tsana  was  adamantine  —  to  re- 
main so  until  the  "  break-up." 

This  now  was  at  hand :  when  all  the  frozen  arteries  of 
Alaska  would  in  one  instant  slough  off  their  pallid  skin ; 
that  second,  final  miracle  of  spring,  craved  and  dreaded 
the  land  over;  when  the  dark,  nether  shadows  of  the 
canyons  warm  and  loose  the  grip  of  basalt  fingers :  the 
time  of  tumbling  ice-cakes  and  avalanches,  in  the  tumul- 
tuous pean  of  a  world  regenerated  beneath  the  streams 
of  summer.  Any  moment  might  usher  it. 

Thus  Gail  paused,  when  he  had  wrapped  his  pots 
and  the  lean  bags  of  beans  and  flour  in  his  bedding  and 
tarpaulin,  folded  the  last  sliver  of  bacon  into  its  big  flap 
of  rind.  A  fortnight  ago  he  had  quitted  the  stamped- 
ers  on  the  Yanaga,  and  headed  south  into  the  trailless 
unknown.  It  was  still  a  hundred  miles  to  the  coast. 
Unless  the  river  broke  so  that  he  could  raft,  his  grub 
would  not  last.  But  grub  could  never  matter  if  this 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     355 

happened  while  he  was  in  the  canyon.     He  must  avoid 
it. 

He  slung  on  his  pack,  and  in  bare  moccasins  headed 
toward  the  east  shore,  across  the  soggy  ice  below  the 
island.  In  a  half  hour  his  exhausting  day  had  begun, 
breaking  trail  with  soaked  and  freezing  feet,  through 
the  slush  of  the  chaotic  "  draws  "  and  gullies  in  the  up- 
per valley  floor. 


Since  the  day  that  Gail  had  left  Chickaman  six  weeks 
back,  he  felt  that  both  the  land  and  humankind  had 
played  him  false.  Among  the  horde  that  swelled  the 
trail  into  the  gaunt  hills  about  the  sources  of  the  Yan- 
aga,  he  had  not  found  his  eldorado,  nor  any  trace  of 
Clara.  And  yet  this  morning  he  was  curiously  light- 
kearted,  intoxicated  by  the  spring. 

But  the  panorama  of  the  stampede  clung  oppressively 
bo  his  mind.  Often  in  lonely  cabins  he  had  heard  the 
details  of  such  a  rush  rehearsed,  ever  with  emphasis 
upon  the  humour  of  its  futility,  the  grotesqueness  of  its 
tragedies,  so  hackneyed  in  the  experience  of  all  pio- 
neers. But  always  reluctantly  they  would  review  its 
serious  aspects,  its  efficacy  in  attaining  their  rich  dream. 
Not  in  the  welter  of  a  stampede  did  the  argonauts  of 
Gail's  lone  pilgrimage  imagine  finding  their  pay-streak. 
That  should  be  delved  by  each  alone,  in  some  undiscov- 
ered valley,  seeing  the  scintillant  glitter  in  the  black 
sand  of  his  gold-pan,  driving  his  "  discovery  "  stake. 

He  looked  back  upon  the  long,  snake-like  horde  of 
dog-teams,  angora  goat-teams,  horse-sleds,  hand-sleds ; 
to  the  jealous,  set-eyed  concentration  of  angular  youths 
and  bearded  old  men  who  toiled  with  their  all  upon  their 
backs.  There  were  clerks,  gamblers,  yellow-legs,  law- 


356       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

yers,  dudes,  drummers,  English  lords;  of  womankind, 
their  "  partners,"  squaws,  and  the  like  of  Gumboot  Sal, 
who  peddled  fusel  oil  from  the  rear  of  her  travoy  loaded 
with  a  piano  swathed  in  red  blankets.  It  was  a  thread 
of  strident  vitality,  vibrating  across  the  dazzling  vast. 
That  mask  of  the  dives  and  streets  of  Chickaman,  worn 
by  riff-raff  and  "  sour-dough  "  alike  there,  was  torn  off ; 
but  to  be  replaced  by  the  more  distorted  passions  of 
naked  ego  galling  ego,  competing  against  death  for 
gold.  They  drew  all  into  a  yet  closer  likeness.  En- 
grossed with  outfitting  in  the  big  camp,  transported  by 
Aladdin  visions,  men  had  been  blind  to  the  trail's  de- 
spairs. As  a  swarm  of  "  mushers,"  they  found  life  to 
be  that  sardonic  changeling  of  reality  that  corrupts  the 
clean  struggle  for  all  great  visions.  For  Gail  it  dese- 
crated the  virgin  wild,  that  arena  where  his  thirsts 
should  be  fulfilled.  It  weakened  his  faith  in  the  lure  of 
gold  as  a  measure  of  the  North's  manhood  and  its  de- 
served survival. 

He  travelled  alone  with  Len's  dog-team,  yet  slept  and 
mixed  his  bread  with  the  Bricker  brothers.  Three 
olive-skinned,  hang-jawed  youths  from  Sacramento,  they 
had  an  inspired  faith  in  hydraulic  propositions,  and  be- 
hind ten  burros  were  freighting  in  some  dozen  tons  of 
12-inch  piping,  the  value  of  which  per  pound,  as  reck- 
oned by  the  ever-mounting  price  of  sugar,  they  would 
re-estimate  at  each  halt,  wiping  the  sweat  from  their 
foreheads.  In  their  tent  also  gathered  Mrs.  Wey- 
mouth,  and  a  grey  little  pop-eyed  man  of  sixty,  who 
had  sold  hailstone  insurance  in  Missouri,  and  was  pack- 
ing in  an  electric  prospecting  apparatus  behind  a  team 
of  three  goats  and  a  Shetland  pony.  The  first  was 
known  as  a  missionary  at  her  home  in  Buffalo,  where 
she  lectured  on  the  starving  aborigines  of  Alaska,  and 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     357 

collected  clothing  for  them.  In  the  North  she  was 
called  the  "  oil-queen,"  from  her  many  seepage  claims 
in  the  Iliamna  country.  She  ran  a  general  store  there, 
but  none  of  her  garments  had  ever  been  seen  warming  a 
Siwash  gratis.  Still,  as  a  rustler  this  bony  woman 
with  her  duplicate  chin  commanded  a  respect  and  tol- 
erance, often  summed  in  the  phrase  that  she  "  druv  her 
own  dog-team."  And  she  took  Bring,  the  insurance 
man,  aboard  her  sled  when  he  came  down  with  liver 
pains  in  his  third  week  out,  and  buried  him  in  her  best 
newmarket  coat  on  the  day  that  they  emerged  upon  the 
bluff  above  the  Yanaga. 

By  then  the  cold,  snow-blindness  from  the  blazing 
spring  sun,  all  the  excruciating  toil  of  the  march  had 
undermined  the  ambitions  of  most  men.  Hopes  tot- 
tered, plunging  them  to  depths  of  gloom  and  anathema. 
Tales  of  fabulous  values  "  to  the  pan,"  "  even  on  the 
benches,"  reversed  to  grim  certainties  that  bedrock  was 
too  deep,  of  "  spotted  "  pay-streaks,  and  ground  salted 
by  fiends  that  deserved  ham-stringing.  The  anarchy  of 
the  exodus  from  Chickaman  ordered  itself  into  the  in- 
evitable oligarchy  of  all  stampedes.  The  weak  became 
camp-followers  to  the  strong.  Many  let  out  their 
teams,  back-packed  for  a  dollar  a  day  and  grub,  to 
serve  them  whose  dreams,  or  pockets,  or  vanity,  were 
toughest.  And  the  smartest  women  prevailed  upon 
their  mates  to  hew  spruce  and  set  up  road-houses. 

The  swarm  flooded  upon  the  hundred  creeks  of  the 
Yanaga  head-waters,  like  a  dammed  stream ;  but  only 
to  find  all  the  good  ground  staked  by  its  handful  of 
"  square-head  "  locators.  Clannish  and  scornful,  these 
Swedes  gave  a  churlish  welcome.  A  few  men  broke  into 
hysterical  laughter.  A  piano-drummer  from  Grand 
Rapids  shot  himself.  The  more  stubborn  clung  to  their 


358       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

fool's  paradise,  maybe  because  it  was  such,  but  swear- 
ing under  their  breath  how,  "  you'd  have  to  hawg-tie  " 
them  to  go  on  another  rush.  Yet  everywhere  their 
square-hewn  claim  stakes  bloomed  forth  blindly,  on  the 
concealing  snow,  even  on  the  glacier  ice  that  fed  the 
river.  Big  tents  arose  for  gambling  and  bars  that  ped- 
dled rot-gut  whisky.  Outfits  were  auctioned  for  a  song, 
and  the  price  of  flour  fell  from  a  hundred  to  ten  dollars 
a  sack.  Before  a  pit  had  been  sunk,  recorders  were 
elected  and  registration  fees  fixed  at  miners'  meetings, 
which  now  a  moustached  and  corduroyed  faro  dealer, 
now  a  bulldog  young  Scotsman  from  Halifax,  con- 
trolled by  bluff  and  the  power  of  his  lungs,  until  some 
ribald  jest,  or  vile  charge,  or  a  flash  of  the  frontier's 
cynic  respect  for  woman,  broke  the  feverish  tension  into 
fist-  or  gun-work. 

Gail  surrendered  his  hope  of  finding  Clara.  How- 
ever he  searched  the  faces  of  the  few  outfits  that  came 
over  the  glaciers  from  the  south,  questioned  them  with 
descriptions  of  her,  he  found  no  trace.  Men  looked 
askance  at  his  beseeching.  Walking  alone  at  night  in 
the  snowy  streets  of  the  temporary,  tented  settlements, 
when  the  orbs  of  candles  bloomed  against  the  white  walls 
and  voices  lapsed  into  earnest  talk  broken  by  long 
pauses,  Gail  touched  his  nadir  of  despair.  And  his  life 
as  an  argonaut  was  a  burlesque  of  that  half-divine  and 
dauntless  pursuit  of  gold  which  he  had  grasped  on  his 
long  wandering.  It  was  making  the  sympathy  that 
overlaid  his  native  hardness  callous  with  sophistication. 
This  was  swinging  him  back  to  that  same  intolerance 
in  which  a  year  ago  ignorance  had  held  him.  He  be- 
gan to  doubt  the  worthiness  of  any  multitude  as  a 
source  of  wisdom,  or  as  a  creditor  for  his  physical  sur- 
vival; his  old  misgiving  of  the  impotence  of  men  in 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     359 

masses,  fronting  their  dreams,  revived.  His  escape 
from  Chickaman  had  only  plunged  him  deeper  into  the 
hectic,  artificial  slough  —  recalling  Hocherda  and  the 
Seward  —  which  he  had  yearned  to  escape.  To  be  him- 
self again  he  must  stand  alone  and  free  in  the  naked 
wilderness.  .  .  . 

Then  came  the  foreordained  scurvy.  It  deepened 
into  tragic  notes  the  unrestful  chorus  of  the  camps ;  yet 
turned  Gail's  dejection  into  activity.  First  an  old  den- 
tist named  Hall  succumbed,  then  a  young  Dane  with  a 
broken  nose.  Drug  outfits  were  displayed;  men  as- 
sembled in  knots  to  swap  episodes  of  the  scourge  in 
other  rushes,  describe  its  torpor,  the  blackening  of  legs, 
the  swollen  gums ;  some  cowered  as  if  it  were  the  plague, 
many  jested,  or  blatantly  prescribed  citric  acid  and 
spruce-needle  tea  as  sure  cures.  Voices  grew  more  gar- 
rulous, but  softer,  behind  the  tents  at  night;  life  in  the 
improvised  dives  burned  over-brightly,  yet  among  fewer 
patrons.  Gold  was  a  bitter  hoax,  and  already  pans, 
rockers,  picks,  were  rusting  in  the  snow,  which  had  be- 
gun to  melt  slightly  at  each  noon. 

Near  the  1st  of  May,  Gail  sold  his  dog-team  to  the 
Brickers  for  six  hundred  dollars,  and  forsook  this  fer- 
ment of  shattered  yearnings  and  ironic  faiths.  He 
started  over  the  Yanaga  glacier,  packing  on  his  back, 
early  one  morning  when  the  first  dark  streaks  glistened 
on  the  cliffs  of  the  gulches.  Until  near  midnight  the 
snow  seemed  to  absorb,  instead  of  to  give  forth,  the  pal- 
lor of  the  day.  Scaling  and  glissading  across  mo- 
raines, threading  crevasses,  he  felt  that  he  had  resumed 
the  exalting,  heroic  hours  of  his  struggle  up  Mt.  Lin- 
coln, and  he  was  refilled  with  the  indelible  splendour  of 
their  inspirations. 

Thus  he  travelled  south  across  the  divide  into  the 


360       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

Tsana  country  bordering  upon  Cook  Inlet.  That  spur 
of  joy  in  subduing  Nature  against  her  challenges  pos- 
sessed him  once  more,  effacing  the  spell  of  gold.  He 
was  a  fool  to  have  believed  a  newspaper  rumour,  even 
her  vow.  Trueblood  had  been  right  about  the  life- 
sapping  power  of  the  sex.  ...  He  would  mate  with 
some  woman  —  a  squaw,  if  need  be  —  in  a  salmon  vil- 
lage on  the  coast. 

m 

By  noon  today  Gail  had  reached  the  heart  of  the 
great  schist  barrier  that  blocked  the  Tsana  to  form  its 
canyon.  On  the  steep  slopes,  snowbanks  gave  firm  foot- 
holds, here  shrinking  from  the  pale,  leathery  leaves  of 
anemones,  there  arched  and  broken  by  the  fungus-like 
growth  of  coarse  lupine  embryos.  The  drifts  melted 
with  an  audible  "  spick,  spick,"  buds  of  the  willows  were 
fuzzy,  their  red  stems  shining  as  if  oiled,  and  the  trim 
spindles  of  the  spruces  dusty  and  weatherworn  by  con- 
trast. He  took  off  his  mackinaw  and  tied  it  around  his 
waist.  Steam  kept  collecting  on  his  black  glasses, 
dimming  the  windless  May  sunshine.  He  felt  languor- 
ous, tempted  to  cast  himself,  thoughtless  and  ruminat- 
ing, into  the  delicious  coolness  of  the  snow.  Life  was 
no  longer  a  charge  of  pride  to  be  battled  for ;  awakened 
Nature  would  care  for  him,  and  he  need  feel  no  responsi- 
bility. He  was  no  more  an  atom  in  her  grim  negations, 
but  the  idol,  rather,  of  her  dawning  luxuriance.  The 
silences  had  lost  their  foreboding,  to  hold  only  that  sus- 
pense by  which  the  glorifying  climax  of  an  orchestra  is 
prepared.  It  was  good  simply  to  be  alive,  without 
woman  or  gold,  in  the  blessedness  of  his  enduring  flesh. 

Narrow  box  canyons  cut  down  toward  the  river,  and 
Gail  had  continually  to  choose  between  circling  their 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     361 

head-walls  and  plunging  straight  across  them.  Sud- 
denly a  plash  and  gurgle  touched  his  ears.  He  lis- 
tened. Free  and  falling  water!  The  wall  of  a  broad, 
deep  gorge  cut  the  snow  —  a  black  ruff  of  slate.  He 
peered  over  it,  to  gaze  upon  the  white  thread  of  a  tor- 
rent crawling  from  a  haze  of  spray.  Descending 
thither  by  crevices  in  the  rock,  its  unpent  sound  and 
motion  dazed  him  somewhat;  and  at  the  bottom,  with 
not  an  inch  of  drifts  visible,  the  narrow  strip  of  sky 
was  like  midsummer. 

He  followed  the  stream  riverward,  jumping  from 
boulder  to  boulder.  Perhaps  he  was  at  last  below  the 
canyon.  But  soon  another  roar  reached  his  ears,  the 
deep  reverberation,  as  if  from  the  earth's  bowels,  of 
rapids  in  the  distant  Tsana.  An  icy  air-current 
met  him.  So,  as  the  far  wall  was  now  unscalable,  he 
would  have  to  retrace  his  steps.  But  Gail  was  in  no 
hurry ;  besides,  he  was  hungry.  Blocks  of  lignite 
were  scattered  in  the  creek-bed.  He  threw  down  his 
pack,  collected  drift-wood  and  started  a  fire.  Next, 
going  to  the  torrent,  he  dug  out  a  chunk  of  the  wood- 
coal  from  the  dry  sand  edging  the  water,  and  broke  it 
upon  the  flames.  He  laid  out  flour,  salt,  bacon  grease 
in  an  empty  milk  can  for  flap-jacks,  filled  his  teapot 
from  the  stream,  placing  it  on  the  fire.  Then  he 
leaned  back  to  doze,  on  a  tussock  of  matted  red-top 
grass,  under  an  ^pen  from  which  sap  was  drooling,  in 
the  tarry  smoke. 

It  was  this  lapse,  impelled  by  the  sorcery  of  the 
spring,  which  fixed  Gail's  destiny.  For  the  season  had 
uncovered  the  lignite,  of  whose  heat  he  was  ignorant, 
never  having  used  it  before.  And  for  months,  always 
forced  to  stuff  his  kettle  with  snow,  and  wait  intermin- 
ably for  it  to  melt  and  boil,  he  had  forgotten  the  vola- 


362       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

tility  of  water  .  .  .  Heretofore,  every  event  in  Gail's 
life  had  seemed  the  deliberate,  resultant  logic  of  his 
actions;  this  was  no  less  so  in  the  crisis  which  his 
closed  eyes  now  faced;  yet  impelling  it,  arbitrary  Na- 
ture, having  overpowered  him,  played  the  decisive  part. 
It  was  the  spring  that  tipped  the  balance  of  his  fate, 
which  henceforward  he  felt  never  lay  wholly  in 
his  own  hands. 

He  slept  on. 

Of  a  sudden,  hissing  and  a  spurt  of  steam  awoke 
him.  The  teapot  had  boiled  over.  Gail  sprang  up, 
seized  it,  scalded  his  hands,  dropped  the  thing  nozzle- 
down  over  the  red-hot  coals.  The  quenched,  sizzling 
fire  cast  up  a  blinding  cloud.  For  a  moment  he  stood 
there  swearing;  then,  looking  out  toward  the  channel 
for  dry  fuel,  he  started  toward  a  small  drift-pile  nearby. 
Beside  it,  a  great  nob  of  the  half-carbonised  wood  was 
deeply  bedded  in  the  gravel,  and  when  he  had  collected 
enough  sticks,  he  set  to  digging  out  the  smooth  black 
block  with  his  hands.  It  refused  to  budge.  Gail  went 
back  for  his  axe,  and  set  to  work  again. 

The  flash  met  his  eyes  from  the  bottom  of  the  pit, 
when  finally  he  had  heaved  up  the  lignite.  It  was 
faint,  no  more  than  a  shimmering  speck  against  the 
black  sand,  in  its  pale  fragment  of  quartz  under  a  film 
of  water.  But  to  Gail's  dancing  sight,  it  might  have 
been  the  focus  of  a  dozen  suns.  He  Parted  backward, 
an  arm  drawn  before  his  forehc^a.  His  heart  had  be- 
come a  trip-hammer.  Open-mouthed,  to  steady  his  be- 
wilderment, his  gaze  clutched  upon  the  sheer  walls  of  the 
gully,  and  their  sable  striated  rocks  appeared  to  pitch 
and  swim.  He  lurched  over  the  hole  once  more.  Gold ! 
The  stony  nugget  seemed  to  enlarge,  like  a  magnified 
image  shot  upon  the  screen  of  a  magic  lantern.  He  fell 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     363 

on  his  knees,  thrust  his  hands  under  the  muck  that  cased 
it.  It  filled  the  horny  skin  of  both  his  fists. 

Gold !  He  had  found  it.  The  Grail  of  the  Young- 
est World  —  the  altar  of  its  inheritors,  the  God  of  their 
avowals,  the  guerdon  of  all  suffering  and  heroism  and 
tragedy.  The  blood  of  his  fathers  in  far  lands  long 
ago  had  furtively,  inexorably,  continued  itself,  genera- 
tion after  generation,  that  he,  Gabriel  Thain,  should  be 
embodied  to  stoop  here,  trembling,  in  this  paling  sun- 
light and  finger  the  reward.  Ice-cap  and  earthquake, 
flood  and  desert,  Arctic  blast  and  the  siroccos  of  those 
tropic  aeons  when  mammoths  roamed  the  North,  had 
each  goaded  the  tumult  of  creation,  only  to  plant  this 
yellow  fragment  here  for  him  to  find.  The  music  of 
spring,  of  all  Time,  had  swelled  into  its  crisis. 

Gail's  brain  seemed  to  boil,  yet  a  shiver  crept  through 
the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  the  relentless,  metallic  voices 
of  the  tributary  dimmed  upon  his  ears.  He  held  the 
key  of  existence.  The  earth  was  in  his  power.  The 
deathlessness  of  his  flesh  was  attained,  warm  and  master- 
ful throughout  the  ages.  Woman  —  its  vehicle  —  was 
but  a  detail,  now  that  he  could  provide.  His  tongue 
was  parched,  his  throat  dry,  but  he  burst  into  a  self- 
scorning,  disillusioned  laughter.  His  desolating  fail- 
ures on  the  Yanaga  became  an  evil  memory,  a  night- 
mare. They  had  bid  to  efface  all  the  wisdom  and 
vigour  with  which  the  North  and  its  avatars  had  gifted 
him.  They  had  falsely  soured  his  faith  in  the  multi- 
tude as  worthy  of  sympathy,  self-sacrifice,  and  hope 
for  the  North.  But  now  he  swung  back  into  the  ag- 
gressive, adjunctive  spirit  of  his  victory  over  Lamar  — 
Lamar,  for  whom  his  possession  of  this  gold  even  ex- 
tended a  fellowship  and  Bob's  charity.  A  storm  of 
thought  swept  him,  which  mingled  them  all,  along  with 


364       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

Tom  and  Hartline,  the  boy  Arthur  —  might  he  not 
succour  and  save  him?  —  jet  in  which  the  image  of 
Clara  floated  obscure  and  tantalising.  .  .  .  But  he 
was  a  different  man  now,  in  another  world.  The  idea 
sobered  him.  The  cliffs  cast  back  his  revelry  with  a 
peculiar  hollowness,  quelling  his  exultation ;  and  star- 
ing at  the  nugget,  his  innate  scepticism  and  doubt  of 
self  steadied  his  reason. 

The  gold  lay  bedded  in  the  vague  shape  of  a  cross, 
no  more  than  a  tiny  inlay,  splashed  on  the  white,  pear- 
shaped  mass  of  rock.  But  why  were  its  edges  so 
rough?  Placer  gold  should  be  smooth.  A  horrid  mis- 
giving struck  him.  Had  he  been  duped  —  was  this  a 
"plant" — salted?  His  anxious  eyes  wandered  again 
along  the  cliffs.  About  a  rod  upstream  they  fixed 
upon  a  yellowish,  upright  strata,  where  the  schist  of 
the  main  valley-barrier  upthrust  into  the  slate  of  the 
gulch.  Pale  against  its  blackness,  the  layered,  crum- 
bling and  ancient  look  of  this  rock  filled  Gail  with  a 
curious  thrill.  Fool  that  he  had  been!  His  treasure 
was  a  piece  of  "  float,"  and  it  had  come  from  there.  So 
steep  a  channel  as  this  never  carried  placer.  He 
marked  a  clump  of  spruces  yonder,  seized  the  axe,  and 
leaping  across  the  stream,  soon  was  digging  his  feet, 
clawing  with  excited  fingers,  upward  through  the  soft 
granite. 

He  found  himself  blinking  before  a  slant  gash  in  the 
rusted,  rotted  quartz.  But  the  sight  that  took  his 
breath  away,  that  clouded  his  memory  until,  an  hour 
later,  he  found  himself  back  at  the  coal  fire  under  the 
aspen,  lay  between  this  and  a  shriveled  boss  of  green- 
ish rock  that  edged  the  slate.  It  was  there  that  he  had 
beheld  the  star-like  glitter,  faint  in  the  afternoon  light, 
yet  so  necromantically  conjured,  of  gold  "  in  place," 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING 

the   free-milling   lode   which   is   the   North's   dream   of 
Alnaschar. 

Now  he  could  not  recall  having  made  tea  or  eaten 
pancakes,  although  he  felt  no  hunger.  He  was  strap- 
ping the  frying-pan  into  his  pack,  and  with  it  four 
other  dazzling  fragments.  The  whitish  dots  of  claim- 
stakes  —  square-faced,  their  distances  apart  paced  out, 
and  bearing  the  pencilled  formula  for  "  recording " 
which  he  had  learned  in  his  long  vagabondage  — 
showed  below  the  spruces  and  on  the  gaunt  heights 
against  the  sky.  He  strove  to  grasp  the  scope  of  the 
task  before  him  to  realise  their  promise.  He  must  pro- 
mote his  discovery,  get  "  outside  "  capital,  and  he  knew 
from  hearsay  that  discouraging  ordeal  against  incredu- 
lity and  avarice.  But  he  burned  with  faith  in  himself 
and  his  find;  a  vision  of  stampedes  hither  thrilled  him, 
as  the  leader  in  unsealing  this  rich  realm  to  the  elect  of 
the  North's  pioneers. 

It  was  beginning  to  freeze,  and  there  was  no  level 
here  for  camp.  But  to  go  back  over  the  head  of  the 
gulch?  'Never!  Canyon  or  not,  rapids  or  no,  even 
the  break-up,  he  dared  them  all  in  his  fever  to  reach 
the  coast  and  human  beings.  He  lifted  his  pack,  and 
started  on  the  run  into  the  lowering  gloom  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Tsana. 

The  creek  bent  to  the  left.  He  forded  it  often,  stag- 
gering among  the  moving  boulders,  wet  and  numb  to 
his  waist.  The  gorge  widened,  plunged  and  opened 
theatrically  into  the  snowy  glimmer  of  an  immense 
amphitheatre.  A  thunder  of  waters  assaulted  him. 
He  came  out  upon  a  cleft  mid-high  in  the  wall  of  the 
main  canyon,  down  which  his  torrent  cataracted  into 
a  shroud  of  ice.  He  was  gazing  upon  the  whole  width 
of  the  Tsana,  a  hanging,  balanced  avalanche  of 


366       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

disintegrating  floes,  which  quaked  and  shuddered  with 
an  unearthly  rumbling.  The  sharp  wind  drawing  up- 
stream cut  him.  Just  below,  the  canyon  walls  ended 
abruptly,  and  the  river  bent  around  a  gourd-shaped 
pinnacle.  But  there,  beyond  the  gloom,  under  the  glow 
of  a  bright  sky  that  would  persist  till  midnight,  ap- 
peared a  great  valley  of  white  boulders,  of  silty  flats  in- 
tersected by  many  channels  into  islands  bristling  with 
great  cottonwoods  and  checkered  by  snow-drifts.  And 
edging  thither  along  the  crevice,  as  his  being  thrilled 
to  this  new  world,  he  seemed  to  discern  a  bluish  haze, 
and  an  odour  touched  his  nostrils  which  made  them  di- 
late, and  stopped  him  short,  clutching  the  snow-bent 
alders. 

The  cap  of  this  day  of  enchantments !  Woodsmoke ! 
He  smelt  the  unmistakable,  sweet  tang  of  burning  pop- 
lar-wood. Men  were  on  the  trail  of  his  eldorado ! 
The  cleft  pitched  downward,  and  he  slid  reckless, 
breathless,  jealously  feeling  at  the  nuggets  in  his  pack, 
a  hand  stealing  to  the  holster  of  his  gun.  Level  with 
the  river  at  last,  he  stealthily  rounded  the  bulbous  pil- 
lar of  rock,  into  a  sandy  flat,  seeing  for  the  first  time 
the  whole  shore  on  which  he  was.  A  blue  whirl  of 
smoke,  caught  by  the  wind,  flung  itself  toward  him  out 
of  a  little  hardwood  grove  back  from  the  river  by  a 
rocky  mound.  With  a  fearsome  heart,  he  dropped  be- 
hind a  boulder.  He  must  approach  these  beings  to  gain 
a  first  advantage,  stalk  them  like  an  animal  his  prey. 

Thus  he  crept  forward,  dodging  from  boulder  to 
boulder,  the  spell  of  spring  obliterated  from  his  mind, 
his  hand  on  his  revolver  and  an  acrid  taste  in  the 
mouth,  until  he  was  less  than  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
fire  by  the  grove.  There  he  crouched,  braced  his  cal- 
loused hands  against  the  cloaking  stone,  and  leaned 


BREAK-UP   AND    BEGINNING     367 

forward  his  body  lithely  from  the  waist.  All  around 
the  vacant  fire  the  snow  had  faded,  and  there  were  scat- 
tered weathered  wood-chips,  fragments  of  boxes,  sack- 
ing, tin-cans,  on  a  hard  and  trodden  soil  —  the  unmis- 
takable signs  of  a  long-used,  permanent  camp.  And 
then  his  breath  failed  as  he  saw  the  being  which  issued 
from  the  grove. 

A  human  figure,  but  a  woman's  figure.  She  car- 
ried a  big  wash-tub  before  her  in  both  hands,  labor- 
iously, leaning  backward  as  she  walked  to  the  embers, 
and  placed  it  upon  them.  Gail's  first  clear  sensation 
was  of  ineffable  relief.  All  his  tendons  relaxed,  his  hand 
fell  from  the  holster.  But  as  he  watched,  drinking  in 
her  aspect,  and  she,  leaning  over  the  tub,  squeezed  and 
rubbed  the  grimy  garments,  a  giddy  warmth,  a  remote 
isense  that  was  unseating,  probing  into  his  whole  life,  suf- 
fused and  constricted  his  vitals.  At  first  it  was  but  her 
slender  womanliness  that  dazed  him,  the  white  sweater, 
the  frayed  blue  denim  skirt,  the  snow-bleached  dark 
hair  undulating  upon  her  shoulders,  as  if  she  had 
just  washed  it  also,  to  dry  in  the  day's  burst  of  heat. 
The  past !  He  could  not  see  her  face.  She  kept  turn- 
ing it  over  one  shoulder,  peering  down  stream  at  the 
river,  as  if  expectant  of  some  approaching  presence 
there;  and  then,  as  one  listens  for  a  haunting  sound, 
she  would  veer  and  sweep  her  eyes  along  the  face  of  the 
crumbling  rock  behind  her. 

With  a  wild  impulse  to  break  the  ominous  suspense 
that  was  closing  upon  his  soul,  Gail  rasped  out  a  cough. 
The  woman  lurched  back  from  her  tub,  transfixed,  star- 
ing toward  him.  That  lithe,  free  movement,  as  of  an 
out-door  denizen!  A  hand  shaded  her  brow,  but  it 
failed  to  hide  the  bold  forehead,  straight  mouth,  the 
eyes  .  .  .  the  eyes  .  .  .  Time  contracted  to  a  fusing- 


368       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

point.  A  black,  wingless  insect  struggling  across  the 
snow-bank  at  Gail's  feet  engrossed  him  for  an  instant. 
Then  all  his  life  in  the  North,  his  new-discovered  world 
of  riches,  was  inverted  into  the  fires  within  him.  He 
stepped  forward,  reeling,  and  ran  dizzily  toward  the 
fire. 

He  called  her  name  over  and  over  —  yet  again. 

IV 

Entrenched  behind  her  tub,  Clara  held  him  off  with 
a  dripping  hand,  its  fingers  spread  and  taut.  She  had 
lowered  her  face;  its  smooth  olive  skin  was  the  hue  of 
the  snow,  her  trembling  lips  dark  as  the  hollows  in  the 
river  ice. 

"You  — you're  a  myth—"  he  breathed.  "If  I 
hadn't—" 

His  high  cheek-bones  scarlet,  Gail  tried  to  rout  the 
silly  reflection  that  had  thrust  itself  between  him  and 
his  gladness:  how,  had  not  the  spring  uncovered  his 
gold,  he  would  have  hit  back  up  the  gulch  and  emerged 
far  below  her  camp. 

"  It's  ordained,  Clara.  Let  me  —  let  me  look  at 
you." 

"Oh  — look." 

She  echoed  him  monotonously.  In  his  fervour,  the 
dulness  of  her  once  resonant  voice  at  first  escaped 
Gail.  And  he  missed  its  note  of  derangement,  as,  rais- 
ing her  head,  she  added  grimly,  "  I'll  show  you 
things.  .  .  ." 

"  Alone  here  ?  Alive  still !  "  he  pleaded,  exulted,  be- 
holding the  rubbish  that  littered  the  sand,  staring  about 
for  tent  or  cabin. 

Motionless,  Clara  appeared  to  be  struggling  against 


BREAK-UP    AND   BEGINNING     369 

the  moist,  vacant  glaze  that  suffused  her  tawny  eyes  as 
they  pinioned  him. 

"  I  always  do  pull  through,"  she  mumbled,  "  through 
everything.  That's  the  awful  part."  Her  rigidness 
relaxed,  and  she  swallowed  once.  "  But,  Gabriel  —  in 
the  cave  there.  All  winter  .  .  .  I've  been  mad."  She 
cast  a  cowering  glance  toward  the  face  of  rock,  choking 
out  her  words,  with  breast  heaving,  body  collapsing. 

Gail  seized  and  supported  her  by  the  shoulders.  As 
she  hung  upon  him,  he  still  strove  to  realise  her  pres- 
ence —  warm,  pulsating,  after  what  privations  of  cold 
and  fatigue!  Ever  the  same,  dominant  and  rugged 
in  her  vitalising,  elusive  beauty;  with  her  restrained 
inertia;  the  wide,  quivering  nostrils,  the  dark  lashes, 
the  brooding  and  somnolent  flames  between  them. 
Strange  that  she  had  survived?  It  was  as  inevitable 
as  the  spring's  triumph!  How  thin  she  was,  patheti- 
cally sharp  her  chin!  The  quizzical  line  between  her 
long  brows  had  deepened.  Yet  her  hollow  features 
bore  a  healthful,  weathered  hue,  and  her  lips  were  firm 
now  and  red,  whatever  the  horror  of  dark  and  endless 
months. 

For  a  moment  the  muffled  clamour  of  the  ice-bound 
river  filled  Gail's  ears  as  if  in  celebration.  Always  Clara 
drew  power  from  the  North.  His  hand  lingered  in  the 
strands  of  her  burnished  hair,  now  inclined  to  curl; 
upon  the  strong  cords  of  her  open  neck;  through  her 
white  jersey  he  felt  the  hard  shell  of  sinew  that  cased 
her  slim  fragility.  Overcome,  he  was  folding  her  in 
his  embrace,  when  her  warning  of  aberration  confused 
his  mounting  ecstasy. 

"  Mad?  "  Gail  panted.     "  What  cave?  " 

She  did  not  answer.     Revived,  she  slid  sinuously  from 


370       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

his  arms,  and  facing  the  cliff,  fimneled  her  hands  before 
her  mouth. 

"  Laundy !     Laundy !  "  she  called. 

"Who's  he?"  began  Gail,  gently.  But  at  once  a 
blackness  swept  his  heart. 

"  My  partner,"  she  replied,  without  turning,  and 
the  drear  monotony  again  entered  her  voice.  "  Old 
Adam  Laundy.  Eight  months  with  his  visions.  You'd 
ought  to  hear  him  sometimes.  He's  very  bad." 

"  Old?  "  repeated  Gail,  trying  to  allay  his  jealousy* 
And  he  grasped  again  her  torture  in  such  a  lonely 
winter  as  the  hardest  sour-doughs  seldom  pass  with 
sanity.  Images  of  Clara,  numb  and  starving,  thrilled 
him  with  homage.  What  other  woman  could  have  en- 
dured such  desperation,  and  then  this  meeting,  without 
a  whimper  or  a  tear! 

"  Yes,  come.  I'll  show  him  to  you,"  she  said,  but 
with  a  shudder.  "  You  got  to  save  us.  I  know  my 
mind's  unhinged,  but  you're  clearing  it,  a'ready.  You 
knew  I  was  here  ?  " 

She  plucked  him  by  an  arm,  and  as  they  quickly 
left  the  washtub,  skirting  the  grove  toward  the  slant 
rocks,  he  told  briefly  about  the  newspaper  in  Hocherda 
—  Chickaman  —  the  harrowing  search  on  the  Yanaga. 

"  Laundy  had  a  trading-store  at  Beluga,"  she  once 
uttered  dully,  as  her  mind  reverted,  infuriating  Gail. 
"  We  hit  straight  north  from  Cook  Inlet.  He  col- 
lapsed just  at  the  freeze-up,  poor  fanatic!" 

They  had  reached  the  cliff.  At  its  far  end,  a  flat- 
tish  arch  some  four  feet  wide  and  high,  over  sand 
pounded  and  ridged  with  the  long  going  and  coming 
of  feet,  framed  a  space  of  darkness.  In  a  moment  Gail 
was  within  it,  groping  blindly  after  Clara,  his  feet  press- 
ing the  softness  of  dried  grass,  and  in  his  nostrils  the 


BREAK-UP   AND    BEGINNING     371 

sour  smell  of  decaying  stone,  mouldy  flour,  rancid 
grease  and  dunnage. 

"  Adam !  Adam ! "  she  called,  stopping  to  fumble 
for  a  light. 

"  Adam,  you  call  him  that?  "  broke  out  Gail  ac- 
cusingly, unable  to  curb  himself  longer.  "  What's  he 
to  you?" 

"  What  isn't  he ! "  she  retorted  with  a  challenge  that 
abashed  him.  "  A  partner  — :  in  this  country."  Yet 
her  vehemence  was  not  shameless. 

The  blue  sputter  of  a  miner's  match  widened  into 
light  from  her  hand.  The  cave  walls,  which  Gail  had 
conceived  as  pressing  upon  their  heads,  sprang  mag- 
ically into  a  dome  of  lofty  galleries,  and  dim  moss- 
like  stalactites.  Stooping  over,  Clara  lit  two  candles 
on  a  block  of  wood  by  some  blankets  —  her  bed,  Gail 
judged,  from  its  neatness  and  the  pair  of  beaded  moc- 
casins stuck  with  a  needle  and  thread  lying  there.  The 
twin  weak  flames  illuminated  blackened  pots,  soiled  tar- 
paulins, scattered  about,  which  yet  cast  a  flavour  of 
homeliness  into  the  damp  and  hollow  vaults  above. 

"  Look  at  his  legs.  The  stains  on  them.  Tell  me 
if  it's  that  curse,  the  scurvy,"  Clara  whispered,  point- 
ing into  a  recess  of  the  cave.  "  He  sleeps  'most  all 
day." 

Gail  heard  a  groan.  He  discerned  in  a  jumble  of 
blankets  (far  from  hers,  he  noted  eagerly)  the  moving 
glitter  of  two  eyes.  A  head  raised  itself  near  the 
heap  of  boxes  and  limp  sacks.  Its  aspect  immediately 
filled  Gail  with  relief.  He  saw  the  face  of  an  aged 
man;  long,  snowy,  matted  hair  that  fell  in  tattered 
ends  into  an  unkempt  and  rusty  beard ;  features  clean- 
cut  as  a  cameo;  a  square  angular  jaw  and  a  curved, 
beaky  nose  on  which  the  skin,  marred  by  pinkish 


372       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

blotches,  was  drawn  tight  and  shining.  In  that  gloom 
he  suggested  uncanny  countenances,  such  as  Gail  had 
seen  pictured  from  catacombs,  except  for  his  blue  eyes 
—  bulging  "  pearl  "  eyes,  watery  and  burning,  which 
did  not  blink.  It  was  a  dumbly  scrutinising  face,  cu- 
riously unlined,  through  which  struggled  an  afterglow 
of  youth  and  hope. 

"  Plenty  of  men  wanted  to  come  with  John  Hart- 
line's  sister,"  muttered  Clara.  "  But  I  wouldn't  take 
any  younger,  because  of  Gabriel.  .  .  .  Adam  had  a 
*  hunch  '  for  prospecting  for  mica  —  there's  money  in 
isinglass  for  stoves  and  electric  insulators  —  till  gold 
fever  hit  him.  He's  had  his  fire  in  life  —  has  it  still  — 
only  he's  too  old." 

"  Clara,  forgive  me,"  stammered  Gail,  humiliated,  his 
misdoubts  quite  dead. 

"  I'd  have  been  slurred,  taking  any  other,"  she  wan- 
dered. "  And  no  matter,  without  you  love  a  man.  I 
did,  so  stood  the  risk  of  Adam." 

"  Clara ! "  Her  dogged,  heedless  loyalty  over- 
whelmed Gail. 

Then  a  fit  of  coughing  seized  Adam  Laundy.  He 
swayed  to  and  fro,  babbling  a  weak  sing-song.  The 
bear-gut  kamakika  that  clothed  his  wasted  trunk  and 
was  dotted  with  red  tufts  of  worsted,  crackled  loudly 
as  he  sat  up  in  the  blankets.  Gail  stooped,  drawing 
them  down  across  his  legs,  for  the  stain  of  scurvy  shows 
plainest  there.  He  yielded  nervelessly,  murmuring  in 
a  thin  voice: 

"  Isin'glass  —  isin'glass-  Nature's  winders,  that  a 
man  ken  see  any  soul  through.  There's  a  chase  in  life ! 
Who  is  he,  Clary?  " 

Gail  started.  The  vague,  incisive  words  caught  him 
unawares,  stirred  his  dormant  introspection.  But  he 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING      373 

only  pulled  back  the  grimy  drawers  over  Laundy's 
skeleton  limbs,  and  arose  with  a  solemn  nod. 

"  The  coffee-colouring.  I  knew  it  was,"  she  said,  ac- 
cepting his  confirmation  without  a  tremour. 

"  Fresh  stuff,  potatoes."  Gail  named  the  only  un- 
disputed specifics  for  scurvy  from  his  experience  on  the 
Yanaga.  "  Nothing  else'll  save  him,  and  I  guess 
there's  none  of  either  short  of  the  coast." 

"  The  Inlet  ?  "  she  asked  avidly,  and  her  voice,  grow- 
ing more  normal  with  the  idea,  except  that  it  mirrored 
no  pain  in  her  memories,  continued,  "  But  we  haven't 
over  twenty  pounds  of  rice  and  apricots,  beside  the 
bacon.  And  dried  fruit's  no  good,  either.  It's  been  a 
race  with  starving  since  March.  ...  I  bet  you've  got 
no  more  grub  than  that." 

Gail  caught  a  breath.  His  own  dilemma  in  food, 
obscured  by  all  the  palpitant  drama  of  the  day,  as- 
sailed him  keenly.  "No,"  he  admitted,  crestfallen. 
"  The  coast's  his  one  hope.  Have  you  any  boat?  " 

"  How  else  do  you  think  we  got  here  ?  It's  hauled 
ashore  two  miles  down  the  river  " —  ever  she  spoke  more 
acutely  — "  where  the  Siwashes  quit  helping  us  to 
cordel." 

"  Then  it's  no  good  till  the  break-up.  He's  too  far 
gone  to  hit  any  trail.  I'd  say  he  couldn't  live  a 
week." 

"  Oh,  oh ! "  she  gasped,  poignantly  for  the  first  time. 

"  Show  him  our  peaches,  Clary,"  interrupted  the  old 
man,  with  a  shrill  abruptness,  reaching  a  hand  into  one 
of  the  sacks  at  his  head.  "  See  —  clean  as  a  whistle. 
Cost  ye  four  bits  a  pound  at  Beluga.  Sell  ye  here  for 
six.  Thrown  away.  A  bargain."  He  waved  his  with- 
ered fingers  in  the  air  and  blew  upon  the  imaginary 
sample  between  them.  "An*  three  hundred  pounds  of 


374       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

rice.  Not  the  dog  stuff.  Rice  goes  farthest  if  y'are 
jackassing."  The  wheezing  cough  caught  him  again, 
showing  his  black  and  swollen  gums.  All  at  once  some- 
thing flew  out  of  them,  upon  the  blankets.  Gail  peered 
at  a  corroded  tooth. 

"  That's  about  the  last  he  has  left,"  avowed  Clara, 
nervelessly. 

An  aching  silence.     Finally  — 

"  Hark !  "  exclaimed  Gail.     "  Listen !  " 

Both  stiffened  upright,  turning  toward  the  entrance 
of  the  cave.  There,  borne  in  upon  the  late,  pale  light 
that  since  their  eyes  had  grown  used  to  the  darkness 
had  subdued  the  candles,  penetrated  a  grinding,  muf- 
fled thunder,  a  distant  reverberation  like  the  clamour 
of  surf. 

"  It's  come.  I  knew  it,"  declared  Clara,  blazing- 
eyed. 

"  Yes,"  echoed  Gail,  giving  out  under  the  rocky 
arch.  "  The  break-up !  " 

"  Adam's  saved  then!  "  acclaimed  Clara,  joining  him 
outside.  They  strained  their  eyes  outward  into  the 
gloaming,  but  beheld  only  the  smooth  icy  courses  of 
the  Tsana,  threading  the  silent  islands,  as  immobile  as 
in  mid-winter. 

"  The  ice  ought  to  go  out  all  together,  in  a  gorge," 
Gail  asserted  at  last,  perplexed.  "  Not  to  is  against 
nature,  unheard-of.  There's  a  false  start  miles  below 
here.  She's  dropped  off,  leaving  the  floes  solid  and 
hanging  up  to  the  canyon." 

But  the  chagrin  that  had  replaced  the  wonder  upon 
his  face  failed  to  curb  Clara's  joy. 

"  Look !  "  She  pointed  to  a  smaller  channel  nearer 
shore,  which  in  their  heat  to  scan  the  main  river  had 
escaped  them.  It  showed  a  glossy,  greyish  ribbon  of 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     S75 

water  moving  slowly  through  the  dusk,  boiling  out  from 
under  a  ragged  lip  of  ice. 

"  We  heard  more  than  the  ice  breaking  there," 
reasoned  Gail. 

"  Launch  the  boat  in  that  tomorrow  for  the  Inlet," 
ej  aculated  Clara.  "  Pack  Adam  on  our  backs  to  where 
she's  beached.  We'll  pull  him  through." 

Gail  recoiled.  "  Not  before  the  whole  river  goes. 
It  'u'd  be  suicide.  We'd  be  caught  any  minute,  crushed 
and  drowned." 

He  checked  himself,  before  the  sudden,  set  pallor 
of  her  features  —  resolute,  domineering,  as  of  old. 

"  Adam  and  I  start  tomorrow,  anyhow,"  she  faced 
him  boldly. 

"  It's  sure  death,"  he  rejoined,  though  knowing  him- 
self helpless  to  combat  her  will.  "  What's  Laundy  be- 
side us,  our  love  and  the  future?  " 

"  Where's  the  sympathy  we  boasted  of  in  Attalota's 
cabin,"  her  voice  shook,  "  for  the  men  the  land  belongs 
to?  Adam's  one  of  them,  only  he's  played  out  now. 
Is  that  any  call  to  let  him  die?  " 

A  woman's  sentiment!  Yet  Gail  winced.  At  last 
he  had  fathomed  the  pluck  and  loyalty  that  swayed  her 
for  the  crazed  old  man.  And  it  gripped  him  that 
though  her  mind  had  been  rambling,  now  the  chance  of 
saving  him  had  shocked  it  into  the  sanest  resourceful 
clarity. 

Then,  in  the  reproachful  pause,  thought  of  the  char- 
ity that  Bob  had  decreed  swept  Gail.  But  he  voiced 
its  contradiction,  which  instantly  hardened  him, 

"  But  this  dying  old  man,  Clara.  Doesn't  he  block 
our  winning  in  the  North,  like  Lamar,  if  we  risk  the 
river  ?  " 

"  Has  the  winter  trail  made  a  brute  of  you?  "  she 


376       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

retorted,  hotly.  "  The  camps  got  you  afraid  and  soft  in 
the  months  we've  been  apart?  You  want  to  lose  me  — 
and  everything?  " 

Dick  Trueblood's  prophetic  fear  for  him! 

"  You  want  Adam  to  die  here,  obscene  and  rav- 
ing? "  she  cried,  wildly  confronting  him,  in  horror  at 
that  long-dreaded  scene.  "  I  told  you  he  was  my  part- 
ner, in  this  hideous  country.  .  .  .  Adam,  oh,  Adam! 
—  after  what  you  and  I've  been  through !  .  .  .  Shame, 
Gail!" 

She  broke  off,  and  flinging  herself  about,  ran  back 
into  the  cave. 

It  seemed  to  Gail,  gazing  after  her,  and  beside  him- 
self in  a  blind  despair,  that  her  shoulders  had  heaved 
with  a  deep  convulsive  sob. 


Gail  staggered  to  the  dying  fire.  It  was  late,  near 
midnight.  In  the  melting  warmth,  the  river  was  spawn- 
ing shreds  of  ghost-mist  that  entangled  the  island  for- 
ests. Still  wan  with  daylight,  the  arching  sky  was 
like  mother-o'-pearl,  where  a  few  faint  stars  trembled 
liquidly. 

Humiliated,  bewildered,  a  sense  of  guilt  stole  through 
Gail's  distraction,  then  self-reproach  and  remoxjse.  His 
mind,  more  than  hers,  had  been  askew  for  weeks$  even 
today.  Else,  in  the  memory  of  those  brief,  passionate 
avowals  in  the  Torlina  cabin,  should  his  arms  not  have 
entwined  her  at  the  instant  of  their  recognition?  But 
on  the  dazing  trails  he  had  doubted,  surrendered  hope 
of  Clara,  the  while  she,  by  brave  and  thoughtful  self- 
denial  and  trust  of  him,  had  kept  her  vows.  Dick  True- 
blood,  depraved  Chickaman,  had  corrupted  his  ideality 
of  womanhood.  Away  from  Clara,  his  steadfastness, 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     377 

even  to  the  dream  of  perpetuity,  had  lapsed.  He 
cursed  himself,  a  fool  and  traitor.  He  burned  to  make 
a  clean  breast  of  this  weakening  and  take  his  medicine. 

He  took  the  wash-tub  from  the  embers,  replenished 
them ;  then,  opening  his  pack  where  he  had  dropped  it, 
started  to  make  tea  and  bannocks. 

She  had  defied  him  —  his  courage  —  to  face  the 
grinding  ice-floes  of  the  Tsana.  Was  not  the  destiny 
of  their  bodies  to  survive  all  perils  of  the  Youngest 
World  an  axiom  of  living?  She  was  right  in  her  de- 
cision to  launch  the  boat.  Clara  was  always  right, 
in  everything!  They  two  were  young  and  strong,  in- 
spired :  what  beings  could  better  battle  and  win  against 
the  breaking  river,  even  save  this  maundering  old 
martyr  to  the  North?  Gail's  heart  leaped  to  the  lead- 
ership for  that  adventure.  Ever  the  burden  of  their 
omnific  future  must  be  his,  not  hers.  He  had  snatched 
back  her  mind  from  darkness,  and  it  would  fail  again 
.alone  with  Laundy,  angered  as  she  was  there  in  the 
cave. 

Gail  ate  on,  gulping  his  tea.  At  last,  taking  the 
pot  and  a  steaming  chunk  of  bread,  he  hurried  back, 
steeled,  under  the  arch  of  rock. 

He  found  her  seated  beside  Laundy,  their  hands 
clasped.  She  had  bound  up  the  hair  on  her  drooping 
head,  and  replaced  the  guttered  candles  with  a  saucer 
of  salmon  oil,  that  floated  burning  shreds  of  canvas. 
He  took  two  cups  from  the  box  by  her  dunnage,  filled 
them  with  the  tea.  Clara  watched  him  guardedly. 

"  The  river's  open,  Adam.  But  he  wants  you  to  die 
here,"  she  muttered  grewsomely,  her  mind  relapsed  as 
he  had  feared. 

"  No,  no !  I  give  in.  I  was  wrong,  and  eat  my 
words,"  contradicted  Gail.  "  I  was  soft  —  cruel,  too, 


378       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

—  but  we'll  trust  the  land  to  treat  us  square,  and  win 
out  by  our  hardness.  We'll  start  as  soon  as  the  river 
fog  lifts." 

"  Gabriel,  bless  you ! "  Clara's  frame  shook, 
straightening.  Her  eyes  brightened  and  danced,  meet- 
ing his  for  a  space.  Neither  look  flinched.  Once 
more  she  was  wholly  alert. 

"  Let  me  confess,"  he  entreated.  "  Blame  me.  But 
hear.  .  .  ." 

She  nodded,  dumbly  radiant.  Gail  broke  the  ban- 
nock, aroused  Laundy.  The  old  man  evolved  a  sepul- 
chral mutter.  His  blood-shot  pupils  gleamed,  as  though 
he  realised  how  Nature  was  unlocking  his  prison  with 
the  lure,  however  specious,  of  salvation. 

The  pair  ate  and  drank  in  silence  as  Gail  nerved  him- 
self for  his  avowals. 

"  I've  been  at  the  brink  of  defeat,  Clara,"  he  began, 
thrilled  by  a  sudden  memory.  "  Always  there  I  think 
of  Martha.  So  you  seemed  like  her,  in  the  way  you 
took  for  granted  the  awful  winter,  resigned  to  fate 
with  her  stoic  calm  —  until  the  spring  broke  the  spell, 
opened  the  way  down  that  channel.  Then  at  a  fighting 
chance  you  sprang  into  yourself  —  at  bay,  a  cougar." 

"  Poor  Martha."  Clara  buried  her  face  in  the  cup, 
and  her  voice  quivered.  "  She  couldn't  have  stood  the 
test." 

"  /  haven't  stood  the  test,"  he  blurted  bitterly,  "  of 
your  love  and  faith  in  me.  Away  from  them,  life  poi- 
sons me,  unworthy,  blind  to  you.  In  Chickaman,  on  the 
stampede,  those  callous,  pathetic  crowds  of  cynical  buf- 
foons weakened  your  image  in  me.  All  the  gruelling, 
the  rebuffs,  clouded  my  love,  eclipsed  my  trust  in  you 
as  the  one  immutable  providence  of  the  great  yearn- 
ing. .  .  ." 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     379 

Gail  caught  his  breath.  It  pierced  him  that  he  had 
never  told  her  of  his  enduring  thirst.  At  the  shots 
around  Attalota's  cabin,  he  had  forsworn  that  rite, 
until  he  should  attain  his  goal.  But  now,  though 
as  far  as  ever  from  it,  he  could  not  contain  him- 
self. 

Her  stare  widened,  burned  sagely,  galvanising  him. 
It  was  he  who  had  lately  been  speaking,  facing  their 
dilemmas,  through  a  haze. 

"  Great  yearning?  "  she  repeated,  with  a  glow  of 
divination.  "  Like  Bob  Snowden's  for  a  deathless 
name  ?  I  said  once  I  understood  that.  Our  last  words 
in  the  .cabin." 

"  I  left  you  then  too  easily,  with  not  wrench  enough, 
eager  to  scour  the  North.  It  wasn't  the  sacrifice  I 
boasted  of,"  he  plunged  on.  "  An  hour  passed  after 
I  got  my  grubstake  in  Chickaman  before  I  thought  of 
you.  And  yet  you  spurred  me  to  the  top  of  Lincoln, 
and  I  killed  Lamar  more  for  love  of  you  than  to  carr.v 
out  Bob's  wisdom  or  my  own  creative  dream." 

"  Creative  dream?  "  she  echoed,  open-mouthed,  spell- 
bound with  awe.  "I  —  I  the  providence.  ...  I  see  — 
I  see.  .  .  ." 

But  Gail  was  deaf  to  her  valiant  floundering  in  the 
wake  of  his  all-revealing  fervour.  In  this  supreme 
moment  of  his  self-doubts,  he  saw  but  her  transcendant 
understanding  fully  aroused  and  receptive  through  the 
bread  and  tea  —  such  food  as  had  not  nourished  her  for 
months. 

"  Clara,  was  my  love  for  you  weakening,  only  a  lust? 
Did  I  believe  what  men  had  told  me,  that  women  blight 
the  inheritors  of  life  in  the  Youngest  World?  I  warned 
you  once  that  my  love  never  measured  up  to  yours. 
There'd  been  Martha  and  my  wife  before,  my  ruin. 


380       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Wasn't  I  made  for  woman  —  I,  who  shall  never  live 
until  I  have  won  a  son  ?  " 

He  paused,  gasping,  in  a  sweat  of  self-abasement. 
With  her  ever  indomitable  resource,  Clara  keyed  her 
shrewdest  intuition  to  her  inalienable  love,  yet  only 
found  answer,  woman  that  she  was,  in  a  glad  flood  of 
tears. 

VI 

Groaning,  Gail  could  no  more  than  seize  both  her 
hands  in  his.  She  controlled  herself  instantly. 

"  Maybe  we  never  should  have  bared  our  hearts 
there  at  Torlina,"  she  answered  with  a  strange  tran- 
quillity. "Confidence  of  possession  does  blunt  a  man." 

He  struck  his  bosom. 

"  But  I  don't  forgive  you,  because  there's  nothing  to 
forgive,  Gail,"  she  pursued  in  a  voice  changed  low  and 
trenchant.  "  You've  been  a  man  among  men.  The 
glamour  and  throb  of  life  usurps  you  all.  It's  in  the 
sex,  that  —  and  to  lose  heart  when  their  dreams  are 
cheated.  Otherwise  I  shouldn't  love  you  —  inconstant, 
aspiring  —  so.  And  if  I've  been  more  steadfast,  it's 
not  my  will,  but  my  nature  and  sex.  .  .  ." 

He  heard.  Her  incisive  reason  sobered  him.  He 
thrilled  with  hope  at  her  breadth  of  vision. 

"  I've  said  before,"  she  continued,  "  love  is  more  than 
faith.  It  wipes  out  everything.  So  if  you  still  love  — " 

"  It's  « the  test  that  never  ends  till  death,'  "  he  re- 
called, calmly.  "  And  we  face  death." 

"It  stands  with  you?"  she  asked,  wistfully. 

"Stands?  .  .  .  Gods!" 

"  Then  the  time  has  come.  Tell  me  now  —  every- 
thing from  the  past  that  I  forbade.  I  know  it's  too 
soon,  before  the  fulfillment's  certain.  But  Gail,  I  shall 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     381 

know  every  word  you  speak,  as  I  know  each  fibre  in 
your  soul  and  body.  ...  I  want  them  —  in  your 
breath,  on  your  lips." 

"  Yes,  too  soon,"  he  burst  out,  transported,  yet  op- 
pressed by  the  old  compact  of  reserve  with  himself. 
"  Before  the  bridge  lies  across  the  void.  But  we  have 
the  timbers." 

"  Gail,"  for  one  so  wavering,  unsure  of  himself,  she 
stirred  him,  cunningly,  "  this  thirst  that  always  impels 
and  rules  you,  as  if  from  outside  yourself,  makes  you 
victorious,  must  be  — " 

"  Immortality! "  he  shouted  through  the  echoing 
cave. 

It  was  he,  not  she,  who  had  been  mad  up  to  this 
moment. 

He  related  all  concerning  Lena,  from  the  point  where 
she  had  checked  him  in  Attalota's  cabin;  about  his  ex- 
ceptional ache  for  parenthood,  which  the  blare  of  John's 
guns  outside  had  quelled.  Her  lips  moved,  following 
each  word.  Her  features  set  at  hearing  how  Madge 
Arnold  had  goaded  the  flight  from  his  blighted  life  with 
Arlene.  The  night  with  Martha  behind  the  luminous 
kilns,  the  heart-rending  hours  alone  in  the  lodging 
house,  put  a  lump  into  her  throat,  a  haze  before  her 
eyes.  Her  pulses  quickened  as  she  heard  of  Rory, 
of  the  resolve  to  search  the  emptiness  and  desires 
in  human  hearts,  and  she  stifled  a  cry  at  the  climax  of 
his  perils  on  Mt.  Lincoln  in  Snowden's  death  —  that 
piteous  triumph  and  Bob's  teaching  summed  in  the 
creed  of  Charity  or  Death.  Then  Gail  recounted  his 
wanderings,  about  Dick  Trueblood  with  his  misgivings 
toward  woman,  Len  Borden  and  Sydney ;  the  sardonic 
stampede;  himself,  finally,  a  Moses  to  the  North, 
through  her. 


382       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

The  flames  in  the  saucer  sank.  A  drip  down  some 
hidden  facet  of  the  rock  began  to  drum  and  splutter. 
A  whisper  of  the  restless  floes  reached  them  from  far 
out  on  the  river.  The  stertorous  breathing  of  old 
Laundy  swept  the  unseen,  overhanging  stalactites,  as  a 
benediction  upon  these  two  heirs  of  the  spring  —  of  all 
life  in  the  Youngest  World. 

"  You  and  I,  Gabriel,"  Clara  gravely  sealed  his  vale- 
dictory, "  our  blood  shan't  ever  die.  .  .  ." 

"  But  Arlene  ?  "     Recollection  lashed  him. 

In  the  utter  dark,  he  could  not  see  the  forecast  of 
her  joyous  and  determined  gaze. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  known  Lena,"  she  said  with 
her  old  candour ;  then  striving  for  the  lightness  ever 
germane  to  her  elation,  "  Yes,  typical  woman  of  the 
West.  The  red-blooded  heroine  that  hats  are  off  to." 
But  her  banter  wilted.  "  Where  is  she  now  ?  God  help 
her  sort,  poor  things  !  " 

"  With  her  mother  in  Sacramento,  I  hope  —  and 
idoubt,"  sighed  Gail.  "  I  loved  Lena  once,  as  you  did 
your  Charley.  .  .  .  I've  heard  nothing,  it's  unchanged 
for  us." 

Retrospection  stimulated  their  breathing.  It 
throbbed,  excited,  through  the  pause. 

Clara  broke  the  tension: 

"  Once  I  spoke  of  6  the  courage  of  our  love  and  our 
beliefs.' " 

Gail  did  not  answer.  He  could  not,  in  the  ferment 
swelling  through  him. 

"  And  just  now  I  said,  *  The  time  has  come,'  "  she 
went  on,  simply.  "  You  told  me,  '  After  we  lick  Lamar, 
You  —  forever.'  And  we  killed  him.  .  .  .  Love  sancti- 
fies anything,  then  or  now.  It's  I  —  I  who  am  not 
worthy  of  yours.  It's  the  deeper  love,  the  more  trans- 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     383 

figuring,  *  Gail,  the  germ  of  all  life  .  .  .  deathless." 
Clara's  voice  rang  out,  a  pean.  "  Take  me,  Gail,  take 
me  —  this  needs  no  courage  —  it's  nothing  brave  for  me 
to  yield.  .  .  .  Have  me  for  now  .  .  .  eternally.  .  .  ." 

They  sat  motionless.  No  power  of  will,  no  swoon- 
ing rapture,  nor  glare  of  truth  beyond  belief,  with- 
held from  one  another  their  flaming  entities  of  flesh 
and  soul.  Only,  the  future  of  all  the  ages  —  throb- 
bing, lambent,  apocalyptic  —  stretched  before  them  for 
their  fruition. 

Each  moment  was  an  age,  each  age  a  moment. 

vn 

"  And  I  hear  the  dawn.     That's  the  first  thrush." 

A  mellow,  suspended  bird-note  confirmed  Gail's  voice. 

He  was  on  his  feet.  An  ashen  glimmer  filled  the 
arch. 

"  Get  our  stuff  together,"  whispered  Clara,  joining 
him,  "  then  wake  Adam." 

They  emerged  on  the  sand-flat,  lit  the  fire;  Gail  got 
water  and  started  breakfast.  Roseate  gleams  tinged 
the  silky  mists  out  among  the  islands.  Window-pane 
ice  had  skimmed  over  the  open  channel.  As  they  gazed 
at  the  wide  river  arms,  still  mute  and  glistening,  Gail 
said: 

"  Safe  enough  today,  I  guess,  till  the  same  moment 
when  she  broke  last  night.  Unless  it's  a  lot  warmer." 

He  picked  up  his  pack.  His  hand  touched  a  hard 
bulge  in  the  canvas.  He  stood  transfixed,  with 
twinkling  eyes. 

"I  forgot.  Clara!"  he  called  to  her  at  the  fire. 
"  It's  a  trifling  thing  now.  But  you  remember  how 
once  we  worshipped  gold  as  the  start  of  all  our  trails  ?  " 

She  sprang  to  his  side,  as  he  murmured,  "  And  gold 


384       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

has  tried  us  in  the  fire  of  life  —  untarnished  —  by 
keeping  us  apart.  And  less  than  the  year  we  allotted. 
We'll  be  rich,  rich!  All  Alaska  at  our  feet." 

Gail  pressed  a  fragment  of  the  rock  into  her  hands. 
She  turned  it  over,  dazed  slightly,  as  if  by  the  rare 
sheen.  Then,  as  they  sat  down  to  eat,  he  recited  rap- 
idly how  the  destined  find  was  made  and  staked,  his 
hopes  for  realising  on  it.  And  listening,  she  grasped 
his  reawakened  exhilaration. 

"  But  tell  me  about  John,  and  the  juggernaut's  ap- 
peal," he  asked  at  length.  "  Is  the  law  still  making 
monkeys  of  us  ?  " 

"  Nothing  so  rare  as  them  up  here,"  she  flashed  back. 
"  But  maybe  porcupines  or  a  glacier  bear,  if  it  doesn't 
get  wise.  Donelson,  he  of  that  white-livered  letter,  is  a 
jailed  ex- judge.  We  used  it  against  him.  And  the 
new  one  —  appointed  by  Roosevelt,  thank  heaven !  — 
has  ordered  the  case  tried  all  over,  starting  where  it  was 
two  years  ago.  The  same  treadmill." 

Ignoring  any  qualms  of  danger,  they  began  swiftly 
packing  their  meagre  outfits.  They  dragged  Adam  out 
of  the  cave,  bed  and  all.  Braced  by  the  fresh  air  and 
light,  his  querulous  advice  in  their  preparations  showed 
the  imperative,  capable  man  he  had  once  been. 

One  trip  for  Gail  and  Clara  down  the  melting  sand- 
bars, across  the  frozen  slues,  and  all  that  each  owned 
in  the  world  was  piled  by  the  clumsy,  coffin-shaped  scow 
with  black  pitch  oozing  from  its  seams,  beached  near 
an  open  back-eddy.  They  returned  perspiring,  al- 
though it  was  hardly  five  o'clock,  and  between  them  car- 
ried the  withered  old  man,  his  head  hanging  grumbling 
from  the  blankets,  to  where  they  launched  the  craft. 
They  loaded  the  thin  sacks  on  its  flat  bottom,  piling 
all  the  bedding  and  Gail's  tarpaulin  in  the  bow.  There 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     385 

they  laid  Laundy,  covered  him  with  a  blanket.  He 
seemed  to  be  asleep,  as  they  pushed  out  into  the  stream, 
which  veered  toward  the  main  Tsana,  along  a  big  is- 
land dark  with  spruces,  to  cut  in  a  bright  vein  among 
its  solid  and  tangled  courses. 

Gail  manned  the  heavy  hewn  sweeps  in  the  stern 
cross-seat,  Clara  rowed  amidships;  and  as  the  narrow 
current  gripped  and  swayed  them,  their  hearts  thrilled 
with  a  delectable,  reckless  apprehension.  Silenced  thus, 
they  slipped  on  easily,  sensible  of  motion  only  if 
they  watched  the  forest-processions,  inert  armies  of  the 
flat  islands,  press  backward  toward  the  vanished  alps. 
Gail  found  himself  likening  this  bewildering  entry  into 
a  new  life,  by  its  her y  contrast,  to  his  midnight  tussle 
while  fording  the  Atna. 

Hours  passed.  Wavering  lines  of  ducks  lagged 
across  the  keen  heavens ;  three  magpies  shook  their  long 
black  and  white  tails  in  a  greening  ash.  Now  the  scow 
pummeled  a  gravel  bottom  close  to  shore,  then  scraped 
between  sharp,  honeycombed  parallels  of  ice  out  through 
the  wastes  of  it.  Their  canal  of  free  water  threaded 
from  hard  vein  to  vein;  zigzagged  among  interminable 
islands  which  split  channel  after  channel.  They  yielded 
sleepily  to  the  alluring  spell  of  progress  without  ef- 
fort, that  paradox  in  a  land  where  advance  is  ever 
battle.  They  rowed  just  enough  to  keep  a  steerage- 
way,  head  on.  Furtively  their  sense  of  caution  was  be- 
riumbed.  Gail's  thoughts  wandered  to  Laundy,  and  the 
valiant  old-timer's  long  life  in  the  North ;  to  his  un- 
balanced yet  sublime  craze  for  mica ;  and  compassion 
filled  him,  then  hope  for  the  fresh  grub  on  the  coast 
that  might  cure. 

Toward  noon  Gail,  turning  continually  to  look  ahead, 
faced  Clara  with  an  exclamation  — 


386       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  Ho !     No  more  islands.     She's  all  in  one  channel." 

The  glacial  river-bed  narrowed.  They  slipped  out 
beyond  a  tongue  of  the  last  island,  as  into  a  melting 
desert,  and  headed  to  the  west  shore. 

"  Phew.  Hotter  than  yesterday,"  said  Clara,  gaz- 
ing forward  also.  Then,  pointing  a  mile  or  so  below, 
"  Look  at  that." 

There  a  huge  mass  of  thick  ice-cakes,  stained  with 
dark  streaks  of  silt,  was  piled  high  on  shore  like  a 
frozen  palace  stark  in  the  sun. 

"  They  broke  in  the  racket  we  heard  last  night," 
said  Gail.  "  Hello.  The  whole  river  down  there's 
open ! " 

Even  as  he  spoke,  they  swept  out  from  their  wilder- 
ness of  floes,  as  if  into  a  pitching  lake  of  grey-green 
water,  its  surfaces  shot  with  hissing  circles  that  ap- 
peared to  be  heaved  up  from  bottom.  The  speed  of 
the  current  doubled,  and,  overawed  by  this  combined 
might  of  the  whole  Tsana,  they  fell  to  harder  at  their 
oars. 

"  But  that's  only  a  handful  of  what  must  have 
split,"  said  Gail,  as  the  ice-pile  drew  abreast.  "  Watch ! 
I  tell  you  the  water's  rising  on  it.  The  rest's  blocked 
down  river.  Listen ! "  He  weighed  his  oars  for  a 
second.  "  There's  the  gorge  it  made,  settling,  back- 
ing up  all  this  water." 

They  heard  a  faint,  cavernous  thudding  far  ahead. 
Their  speed  quickly  slackened.  Sudden  waves,  run- 
ning up-stream,  splashed  against  their  bow.  But  the 
sight  that  held  their  gaze  was  the  plain  of  ice  out  of 
which  they  had  just  floated.  All  the  quieting  river 
seemed  to  be  rippling  backward  thither,  burying  it. 
The  line  of  its  dull  gleaming  was  stealthily  retreating 
toward  the  dwindling  islands. 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     387 

"  Stand  by  for  when  she  cracks  again,"  warned 
Gail.  "We'll  be  swept  down."  He  cast  a  glance  be- 
hind, seeing  that  the  whole  river  veered  abruptly  east 
around  a  sharp  bend.  "  Can't  see  what's  coming." 

"  We're  —  all  right  —  I  guess,"  panted  Clara. 

For  a  time  they  kept  on  rowing  close  to  shore,  in  an 
avid  silence,  shooting  their  eyes  to  the  mounds  of  ice 
and  the  drift-piles  that  sinisterly  lined  the  bank.  As 
the  river  backed  up,  and  the  flood  crept  higher  among 
them,  they  watched  it  gurgle  among  great  prone  cot- 
tonwoods,  usually  high  and  dry,  and  swing  out  their 
tops  like  fingers  pointing  solemnly  into  the  eddies. 

"  It's  pressing  up  the  ice  back  there,"  said  Gail. 
"  Loosening  her.  She'll  sag  and  buckle  after  the  next 
break.  Hark!" 

Again  the  muffled  rumbling  down-river.  Then,  after 
an  aching  space,  arose  like  an  echo  a  soft,  splitting 
turmoil  far  astern,  which  seemed  elusively  to  pierce 
the  air  all  about,  with  a  resounding  as  of  rended  beams 
of  wood.  They  were  sweeping  faster  around  the  bend, 
in  the  impulse  given  the  river,  sinking  as  it  ploughed 
through  the  invisible  barrier  of  floes  below.  They  could 
see  it  receding  from  the  stranded  cakes  and  shore  drift, 
boiling  through  the  fan-like  spread  of  gaunt  and  up- 
right roots,  majestically  bobbing  their  great  trunks  up 
and  down.  They  strained  the  more  at  their  sweeps, 
but  at  first  unable  to  outrun  the  current,  turned  broad- 
side once. 

"  Row !  "  called  Gail,  oblivious  that  they  were  headed 
into  the  bank. 

"Ashore?  Never!"  exclaimed  Clara,  repudiating 
the  instinctive  impulse ;  thus  nerving  her  woman's  de- 
pendence into  that  fierce,  transcendant  courage,  which, 
once  fired,  out-dares  and  out-suffers  man's. 


388       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

The  river  had  broadened.  They  heard  the  hidden, 
raucous  drag  of  pebbles  grinding  along  bottom.  Dead 
ahead,  a  patch  of  water  that  seemed  motionless  was 
puckered  by  a  riffle. 

"  Sandbar ! "  Gail  turned  aft  from  sighting  it ; 
from  old  Laundy  suddenly  rising  out  of  his  blankets. 

The  reef  shouldered  them,  rocking,  down  the  clear 
drop  of  a  chute.  In  a  slither  of  cascading  gravels, 
they  swung  once  more.  .  "  Stroke ! "  Gail  ordered. 
They  hit  bottom  with  a  resounding  bump.  The  floor- 
boards groaned  and  bent ;  a  spurt  of  water  and  splinters 
jumped  into  their  faces;  but  they  forged  free,  and  as 
the  shallow  contracted  aft,  Gail  added: 

"  Low  tide.  Water's  all  leaving  the  river,  or  we're 
on  the  wrong  side,  out  of  the  channels.  High  and  dry 
soon." 

"  Ahead  —  ahead !  "  cut  in  Clara,  behind  him.  "  See 
Adam.  What's  he  spotted?  "  Kneeling  on  the  dun- 
nage, leaning  over  the  bow,  back  to  them,  the  old  man 
was  waving  his  arms  in  ardent  trepidation,  making  gag- 
ging noises  in  his  throat.  In  the  instant  that  Gail 
switched  his  head,  beholding,  his  heart  turned  to  stone. 

"  Canyon  —  another,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

Forward,  the  whole  Tsana  narrowed  like  a  funnel  be- 
tween rising  walls.  In  scarce  half  a  mile,  it  slipped 
into  the  jaws  of  black  and  towering  crags.  "  In  for 
it.  We're  going  too  fast,  too  far  from  shore  to  land 
now,"  he  went  on,  and  half  in  uncontrollable  irony,  half 
in  cheer,  "  Can  he  swim  or  pray  —  the  old  man  ?  " 

"  Pray  yourself,  or  shut  up ! "  retorted  Clara, 
stolidly,  in  a  single  breath,  which  summed  to  Gail  her 
bravery,  restraint,  and  unrelenting  bravado  toward 
whatever  doom. 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING      389 

"  If  the  avalanche  from  up-river  catches  us  in  there," 
he  laughed  grimly.  "  Matchwood !  " 

"  Shakin'  hands  with  the  devil,  hey?  "  shrilled  out 
old  Adam.  "  An'  afore  you  meet  him !  But  betch- 
yer  he  savvies  this  yere  canyon." 

Black  boulders,  grotesquely  water-carved  and  draped 
with  a  greenish  slime,  dove  past  them.  A  low  cataract, 
draping  a  flat  ledge,  backed  off  into  its  haze  with  the 
tremour  of  a  slow  explosion.  Then  a  hush  fell  on  the 
river,  the  stillness  that  ushers  in  a  gale. 

A  moist  darkness  redolent  of  river-weeds  closed  over 
them.  Rugged  jaws  enfolded,  upon  a  slant  and  inky, 
satin  surface.  The  walls  flung  back  the  steady  whining 
of  their  thole-pins,  the  gulps  from  caverns  breasted  by 
the  tide.  Lone  spruces  climbed  high,  like  sentinels 
in  niches  of  the  serrate  cliffs.  Under  the  shred  of  sky, 
sheer  pinnacles  marched  craftily,  hypnotically,  among 
one  another.  But  it  drew  the  eyeballs  from  their 
sockets,  even  silenced  Adam  leaning  rigid  over  the  side, 
to  see  the  monuments  of  ice,  heaped  castle  after  castle 
of  wrecked  floes,  hanging,  balanced  on  every  brink  of 
shore,  and  green-opalescent  in  the  gloom,  exhaling  chilly 
breaths. 

Slowly  motion  possessed  the  glossy  avenue;  it  coiled, 
curved,  dappled  with  specks  of  foam.  The  scow  lurched, 
racing  ever  faster,  a  chip  down  the  ribbed  pathway  of  a 
flume. 

"  Pull  —  your  guts  out !  "  yelled  Gail. 

They  bent  fiercely  to  the  sweeps,  with  numb  and  ach- 
ing arms;  but  without  avail  to  head  the  water.  The 
canyon  twisted.  Swinging  uncontrolled,  they  drove 
around  sharp  corners  which  tossed  up  ruffs  of  spray ; 
dropped  through  the  defiant  trumpeting  of  rapids, 


390       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

twirled  among  grisly  mid-stream  ledges,  ever  to  be 
flung  against  blind  walls,  which  ever  dissolved  and 
opened  miraculously  onward.  Then  — 

The  sunlight  blinded  them.  They  shot  free,  yet  help- 
less, out  of  the  canyon.  Laundy  gave  a  faint  whoop. 

"  Made  it !  Safe !  "  came  Gail's  voice  steadily,  shat- 
tering the  tension.  He  threw  a  glance  forward  over 
his  shoulder,  and  at  the  immanence  which  greeted  him, 
ripped  out  an  oath.  It  spelled  destruction.  There, 
barred  by  a  throng  of  little  islands,  the  river  lay  all 
solid  again.  The  flood  dipped  under  a  chaos  of  ice- 
cakes  strewn  on  the  brilliant  petrifaction  of  its  surface. 
Just  above,  on  the  near  bank,  rose  a  great  mound  of 
bleached,  scarred  trunks.  His  heart  leaped  to  this 
one  hope.  It  might  shelter  a  back-water. 

"  Shore,  Clara,  hit  for  shore.  It's  grub-time,  hey? 
Edge  in  if  we  can't  outrun  the  current.  On  your  right 
oar  —  right.  To  that  drift-pile.  Look !  .  .  .  An- 
swer! .  .  ." 

His  calmed  voice  wavered  despite  all  effort.  He 
snapped  his  teeth  together. 

"Clara!  .  .  .  Clara. —  don't  you  hear?" 

She  did  not  answer.  She  had  stopped  rowing.  The 
river  yanked  at  her  sweep,  tore  it  from  the  combing. 
Her  head  fell  between  her  shoulders,  and  she  slid  aft, 
under  his  own  seat.  She  —  he  could  not  believe 
it. 

"Gail  —  my  arms.  .  .  .  Gail!"  she  cried.  "Only 
my  body's  quit." 

Adam  was  voicing  his  desperation  at  that  malignant 
barrier  speeding  toward  them,  with  the  groan : 

"  Hills  o'  my  mica  yonder,  Clary.  .  .  .  Oh,  Clary  — 
huntin'  further  ain't -no  use." 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING     391 

vn 

Gail  plugged  on,  tigerishly,  at  his  right  sweep, 
unleashing  the  uttermost  power  of  his  tendons.  Only 
seconds  remained  to  their  mad  careening  —  a  time  for- 
ever blurred,  interminably  lengthened. 

A  murmur  reverberated  across  the  sounding-board  of 
water.  Profound  and  cosmic,  it  issued  from  the  rocky 
walls  astern,  and  the  drift-pile  echoed  a  furtive  crack- 
ling, as  of  flames.  Gail  felt  his  heart  beating  in  his 
ears.  A  damp  wind  sprang  up,  chilled  his  sweaty, 
streaming  face.  A  sea-gull  from  the  coast  swooped 
low  before  his  bulging  eyes.  A  cloud  of  mistiness  had 
puffed  out  of  the  receding,  empty  jaws  of  rock. 

"  Don't  —  don't  jump,  whatever  happens,"  he 
shouted  once,  whirled  by  a  maze  of  cross-currents,  in 
the  illusion  that  Clara  was  still  working  behind  him. 

The  dull  sound  fell  as  if  from  mid-air,  then  mounted 
with  racking,  grinding  overtones,  and  culminated  in  a 
roar.  A  humped,  green  dome  of  water  welled  from  the 
black  portals.  The  scow  breasted  it,  dizzily.  The 
earth  shivered.  With  a  deafening  thunder,  the  can- 
yon vomited  its  juggernaut. 

For  an  instant  the  spectacle  blotted  all  fear,  held  Gail 
entranced.  In  the  back  of  his  head  he  seemed  to  see  and 
hear  the  crash  and  leaping  of  all  the  rivers  in  Alaska, 
re-creating  his  Youngest  World. 

First  a  welter  of  moving,  noisome  cakes.  Behind, 
like  the  ramparts  of  a  glacier  endowed  with  titanic  life, 
the  mountain  of  ice,  all  the  floes  that  they  had 
threaded  hours  back.  An  immensity  of  somnolent  and 
shimmering  emerald,  scarred  and  sodden  with  muds  and 
gravel.  On  it  ploughed,  haltingly,  at  a  stuttering,  in- 


392       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

exorable  pace.  Over  and  over,  layer  after  layer,  white 
masses  slid  out,  rolled  clumsily  upon  themselves,  toss- 
ing branches,  bark,  whole  trees  torn  from  the  rock 
ledges.  Muddy  water  poured  over  its  top,  spilled  in 
sudden  cataracts. 

A  vinegary  feeling  crept  under  Gail's  ribs.  The 
first  cakes  had  reached  him.  A  stump  crashed  into  his 
oar.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  wild  curse.  Close 
to,  he  saw  the  gnarled  summit  of  the  drift-pile,  just 
topped  by  the  water.  An  island  of  ice  lifted  him,  and 
he  hung  poised  with  an  uncanny  steadiness.  Turning 
turtle,  the  cakes  dropped  the  scow  on  her  left  beam. 
He  found  himself  standing  on  her  side,  gripping  the 
seat,  and  beside  him  —  Clara,  chalky- faced,  but  re- 
vived in  all  her  vigour,  struggling  forward  to  reach 
Laundy,  where  he  rolled  among  dunnage  and  blankets, 
maundering  about  death  and  some  unheard-of  daughter. 

A  whitened  tree  arm  from  the  drift-pile  reached  and 
smote  Gail's  head.  It  seemed  to  draw  them  toward 
shore.  An  avalanche  of  floes  fell  on  the  stern  and  stove 
it.  Dim  and  far  away,  Gail  heard  the  tumult  of  the 
dark  waters  that  poured  over  him.  But  stunned  in  his 
frenzy,  he  saw  nothing. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  lying  in  a  patch  of  moss  on  the 
steep  shore.  Clara  leaned  over  him. 

«  You  — "  he  muttered.     "  You  saved  us." 

"  No  —  no  —  when  the  trunk  caught  you.  It  swung 
us  into  the  back-eddy  I  only  held  the  log,  like  death. 
We  climbed  onto  the  drift-pile,  while  the  ice  passed." 

"The  break-up!" 

"  You  should  have  seen  that,  Gail.  Marching  across 
the  North."  Her  voice  steadied.  "  But  we've  lost  all 
the  grub  and  blankets,  though  I  saved  the  axe." 


BREAK-UP    AND    BEGINNING      393 

"  Then  we  can  raft.  A  day  to  build  one.  A  day  to 
the  coast  in  this  current." 

Gail  rose  on  an  elbow,  and  stared  out  upon  the  open 
waters  of  the  spring. 

"  The  old  man,  Laundy?  "  he  asked.     "  Where?  " 

Clara  turned  her  head  away.  Gail  saw  her  body 
shaking,  heard  her  gasp. 

"  Dead  —  when  I  got  him  here.  In  the  brush  along 
shore." 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke. 

"  It  was  to  be,  in  the  break-up,"  she  said  clearly,  at 
last. 

"Break-up.     Beginning!  .  .  ." 

"  I  knew  that  we'd  win,  Gail,"  she  murmured,  "  by 
daring  it.  Come,  first  we'll  bury  him." 

vra 

Again  it  was  midnight.  They  lay  under  the  close 
thatch  of  a  giant  spruce,  waiting  for  the  first  streak 
of  day;  snatching  an  hour  of  rest  between  grave-dig- 
ging with  the  axe,  and  resharpening  it  to  hew  logs  for 
binding  into  a  raft  with  strips  of  clothing. 

Their  tragedy,  hunger,  the  escape,  had  made  the 
silence  poignant  and  searching. 

"  We're  really  the  dreamers,  Gail,  we  women,"  sud- 
denly harked  back  Clara  to  their  avowals  in  the  cave. 

"  Creators,  too,"  said  Gail,  gravely,  linking  his  arms 
more  strongly  about  her,  "  of  life  out  of  the  reason- 
less, impalpable  —  Love." 

"  Yes.  But  fierce  as  all  existence.  Tangible  as 
fire.  The  fruition's  only  the  seal,  the  testimony  of  the 
God-like  will  that  lies  behind  all." 

Their  lips  met.     One  star  pressed  through  the  spi- 


394?       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

nous,  radiating  branches.  A  squirrel  set  up  his  sooth- 
ing chatter. 

"  And  the  man  yearns,"  he  whispered,  drinking  in 
her  warm  breath,  "  no  more  for  his  own  continuance 
and  the  future,  than  for  the  image  of  the  mother  in 
the  son." 

"Gabriel!"  .  .  . 

It  was  ordained.  All  time,  the  starry  whirl  of  com- 
ing aeons,  swung  upon  the  axis  of  them. 

He  had  flamed  first,  in  the  cave,  with  his  instinctive 
and  ideal  purposes.  Not  until  Death  had  now  broken 
around  them,  did  their  bodies  enfold  one  another.  .  .  . 
Which  love  was  the  more  omnipotent?  .  .  .  There 
could  be  but  one  —  so  deep,  all-effacing,  self-conceal- 
ing—  attuned  perfectly  with  the  silent  processes  of 
Nature,  in  the  slow  mill  of  the  revolving  spheres. 


BOOK  FIVE 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  WIFE 


NEAELY  a  year  and  a  half  had  passed. 

Gail  had  found  the  address  of  Laundy's  daughter 
among  papers  in  the  trading  post  at  Beluga.  With  Jim 
Shaw,  the  yankee  skipper  of  the  monthly  mail-boat 
Alice,  he  had  appraised  the  old  man's  stock  at  $500, 
and  sent  a  money-order  for  that  amount  to  Janet 
Laundy  in  Oregon,  out  of  the  $600  from  the  sale  of 
Borden's  dog-team.  Then  in  November,  as  the  fur- 
trade  on  Cook  Inlet  had  for  years  been  unprofitable, 
he  and  Clara  sledded  their  outfit  a  hundred  miles  west- 
ward across  the  Alaskan  Peninsula  to  Nushak  Bay,  on 
Bering  Sea.  There,  in  the  Aleut  village  of  Chigmit, 
near  five  large  salmon  canneries  which  in  summer 
steamed  and  clanked  on  the  barren  shores  of  the  river- 
mouth,  they  built  their  log  store.  For  more  than  a 
year  they  had  lived  here,  enlisting  the  natives  to  hunt 
for  them,  dickering  with  the  cannery  managers  to  sell 
the  Tsana  discovery. 

It  was  now  late  September,  1905.  And  Clara  re- 
mained childless. 

This  morning  she  stood  at  the  sink,  plunging  the 

breakfast  dishes  into  the  soapy  water.     Her  eyes  were 

395    ' 


396       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

fixed  alertly  upon  the  muddy  vastness  of  Nushak  River 
estuary  through  the  window.  Seated  upon  the  bench 
under  it,  by  a  box  of  sickly  geraniums  and  pink-flower- 
ing trefoil  that  craned  toward  the  cold  light,  Gail  was 
silently  weaving  the  gut  web  of  a  narrow  native  snow- 
shoe.  Content  and  prosperity  shone  from  their  big 
Russian  bunk  with  its  ermine  spread,  in  the  black-and- 
nickel  range  new  from  Seattle,  the  pictures  from  il- 
lustrated weeklies  tacked  to  the  newspapers  that  covered 
the  clay-chinked  walls,  the  roll-top  desk  salvaged  from 
the  wreck  of  a  Cape  Nome  "  liner."  Only  the  domestic 
air  of  parenthood  was  lacking  —  eternally.  But  this 
drear  emptiness  to  which  they  had  bravely  inured 
themselves,  today  was  deepened  by  a  newer,  less  brood- 
ing, but  more  trenchant  anxiety.  An  expectant  ten- 
sion filled  the  cabin.  An  event  was  at  hand. 

The  August  visit  of  the  Alice  had  brought  them  news 
from  Steve  Merril,  the  keen-faced,  astute  young  fore- 
man of  the  Kussiloff  plant,  whose  ardour  for  the  North 
had  attracted  Gail.  He  had  "placed"  the  Tsana 
claim.  Returning  to  San  Francisco  in  July,  he  wrote 
that  he  had  bonded  Gail's  ground  for  $10,000  to  a  man 
named  Eleven.  Eleven's  party  was  starting  north  im- 
mediately. They  would  reach  Chigmit  on  the  mail- 
boat's  September  trip,  assured  by  Merril  that  Gail 
would  at  once  guide  them  inland  to  inspect  his  find. 
The  inanity  of  this,  since  in  a  month  the  whole  land 
would  be  sealed  under  snow,  had  angered,  then  puzzled, 
Gail;  it  was  like  the  impetuous  Stephen  just  out  of 
school  whose  father  owned  the  cannery.  But  could 
there  be  any  other  reason  for  the  haste? 

By  noon  the  Alice  would  be  three  days  overdue.  As 
the  old  converted  whaler  should  have  been  entering  the 
bay,  a  storm  had  swept  it,  which  the  Indians  reported 


THE    WIFE  397 

had  wrecked  the  schooner  belonging  to  Sim  Roberts,  the 
village  squawman,  and  drowned  him. 

"  This  Bleven  never  would  have  held  us  to  hiking  for 
the  Tsana  after  snow  comes,"  said  Gail,  "  unless  he  had 
horses  and  the  feed  for  them.  What  was  it  Steve  wrote 
about  our  dogs  ?  " 

"  To  have  the  team  ready,"  answered  Clara,  "  in  case 
I  guess  — " 

She  hesitated  at  Gail's  conceding  nod.  Each  sensed 
the  precaution  which  the  North  implants  for  such  a 
winter  journey. 

"  We  might  have  made  it  in  there  in  two  months, 
though,"  said  Gail.  "  But  his  feet  would  have  froze, 
the  first  look-see  at  these  tundras.  Poor  guys !  "  His 
words  assumed  that  the  Alice  was  lost.  His  unconcern 
that  this  chance  seemed  gone  for  realising  his  dream  of 
riches  was  disturbing.  "  Well,  it's  the  last  day  I  give 
them.  If  she's  not  in  by  night,  I'm  hitting  down  shore 
to  Herndon  Flats  tomorrow  with  Chelthan  to  look  for 
wreckage." 

Clara  said  no  more,  and  Gail  rose  to  peer  through 
the  small  window.  The  thirty-foot  tide  was  high  in 
the  wide  estuary.  As  ever,  raised  by  mirage,  drifting 
tree-trunks  from  the  wooded  interior  hung  as  watery 
dots  in  the  dour  autumn  air;  the  far,  low  banks  of  saf- 
fron cottonwoods  traced  a  crumpled  line  against  the 
immense,  grey-red  desolation  of  moss  which  met  the 
mountains  beyond  an  incalculable  space.  Seaward, 
down  the  peninsula,  these  appeared  like  a  string 
of  ice-bergs,  rising  into  the  glittering  chaos  of 
blue-gemmed  peaks  about  the  St.  Sophia  Volcano. 
Northward  the  ranges  melted,  and  drawing  closer  — 
strangely  carved,  of  a  flinty,  dull  peacock  nakedness  — 
marked  the  direction,  300  miles  northeast,  of  Tsana 


898       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

River.  From  Chigmit  the  shortest  route  to  Gail's  el- 
dorado  lay  overland,  not  up  the  Tsana  as  from  Beluga ; 
and  as  his  eyes  wandered  thither,  over  the  green  onion 
domes  of  the  Russian  Church  and  two  closed  canneries 
across  the  river  with  their  long  rows  of  windows,  Gail 
said  reminiscently : 

"  Clara.     Unhappy.     We've  not  been  that?  " 

He  had  never  before  referred  so  directty  to  the  balked 
issue  of  their  long  union.  But  Eleven's  added  failure 
seemed  to  him  to  justify  an  unsealing  of  his  lips,  ever 
less  patient  than  hers. 

He  did  not  turn  for  a  reply,  for  he  was  sure  that  he 
would  get  none.  In  all  these  months  of  their  growing 
chagrin,  it  had  been  Clara  more  than  Gail  who  had 
faced  his  disappointment  with  a  reverent  and  dominat- 
ing silence;  who  more  forbore  and  hoped;  whose  re- 
serve was  greater,  if  her  content  was  less. 

Only  the  word  "  love,"  heretofore  so  often  in  her 
mouth,  passed  it  no  longer.  But  Gail  knew  that  the 
flame  had  but  retreated  beneath  the  ashes  of  their  bar- 
ren days,  ever  ready  to  burst  forth  again.  She  guarded 
it  the  more  zealously  of  the  two,  for  now,  as  during 
his  wanderings,  this  half-attainment  had  slowly  under- 
mined his  self-reliance. 

But  the  green  domes  of  the  little  church  recalled  to 
him  the  incomprehensible  ceremony  of  their  wedding 
there.  Clara  had  suggested  it,  at  first  whimsically,  in 
the  flush  of  their  early  happiness  and  ardour.  Later 
she  had  insisted  on  the  step,  and  not  quixotically,  after 
opposing  Gail's  notion  of  going  to  Seattle  to  trace 
Lena  and  convince  her  that  justice  entitled  them  both 
to  a  legal  freedom.  And  Gail  had  yielded  in  her  rather 
jocular  spirit.  They  had  stood  together  before  the 
bright  tinsel  ikons  of  the  gaudy  altar,  the  vivid  dado 


THE   WIFE  399 

of  paintings  (turned  out  by  the  gross  in  Moscow)  show- 
ing the  Miracle  in  the  Manger,  among  shabby,  awed 
Indians  and  countless  candles,  as  the  bearded  priest, 
Mike  Azoff,  on  his  year's  round  of  the  bleak  coast  in 
his  bidarki  —  marrying,  baptising,  burying  —  having 
shed  his  odorous  kamaleika  for  the  lavish  robes  kept 
in  the  tiny  vestry,  had  smilingly  repeated  the  rigmarole 
of  his  Greek  faith.  Then,  re-crossing  the  river,  Clara 
had  forestalled  any  reproach  for  sacrilege  by  saying, 
"  If  you  are  free,  Steve  Merril  says  the  job  will  stand. 
But  I  needed  it  to  cinch  my  conscience,  like  any 
woman  dresses  up  for  an  ovation.  And  mine  is  for  life, 
Gail."  Her  voice  had  lowered  with  grim  courage,  as 
she  added,  defiant :  "  What's  God  in-  his  heaven  to  say, 
if  there  is  one,  when  He  knows  as  I  do  that  I'm  honest 
and  right  so  long  as  we  keep  our  faith  ?  " 

At  this  moment,  so  long  since,  her  words  recurred  to 
Gail.  "  Yes,  our  faith  in  life's  still  too  big,"  he  echoed 
half-consciously.  "  Even  this  comfort  is  too  rare  to 
risk."  But  his  jaw  dropped. 

"  The  trip  might  have  helped,  foolish  or  not,  winter 
or  no,"  she  sought  practically  as  ever  to  wrest  his 
mind  from  brooding.  "  I've  been  thinking  how  a  bite 
of  sour  dough  bread,  a  frozen  foot,  or  some  josh  about 
the  beans  might  put  us  on  our  mettle  again.  It's  the 
bears  live  highest  in  the  ice,  or  where  the  picket-pins 
are  scarce,  that  raise  the  cutest  families  and  the  big- 
gest." 

She  laughed,  with  a  touch  of  the  cheer  and  vigour 
in  her  old  raillery;  then  sighed  tremulously,  but  with 
a  note  of  relief  and  resolution.  Lifting  some  steamy 
granite-ware  plates  with  a  clatter,  she  began  to  wipe 
them.  Through  the  open  door  leading  into  the  store, 
where  pale  lynx  pelts  and  steel  traps  hung  from  the 


400        THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

rafters,  came  guttural  voices,  the  sift  of  sugar  in  a 
barrel,  the  click  of  a  scale.  The  tall  gaunt-cheeked 
Chelthan,  the  old  chief  who  clerked  for  Gail,  was  mak- 
ing a  sale  to  a  shawled  squaw  with  a  papoose  in  the 
bundle  of  moss  upon  her  back. 

"  I  thought  I  was  starting  life  again  with  you," 
doggedly  reverted  Gail,  nevertheless.  "  Perhaps  I  went 
too  far  back,  or  never  deserved  a  woman  so  fine.  Any- 
one might  have  done  me.  And  damn  this  gold !  " 

With  a  sudden  impulse,  mortified  at  his  resignation, 
he  threw  down  the  snow-shoe,  and  striding  across  the 
neat  rag  carpet  seized  Clara's  bare  wet  arms  and  kissed 
her  cheeks  fiercely. 

"Let's  be  outspoken  with  ourselves,"  she  struggled 
free  with  her  wiry  strength.  "  I  know  all  you've  got 
to  grudge,  against  life  and  me.  But  we're  making 
our  own  world  up  here,  like  any  wolverine  —  agreed 
that  only  death  can  stump  us.  We  won  there  on  the 
Tsana  by  keeping  the  stiff  lip,  and  against  the  worst 
odds  this  harsh  land  offers.  I  tell  you  we're  fighting 
that  way  to  the  end,  and  no  shaking  with  the  devil 
till  we  meet  him,  like  poor  Adam  used  to  say." 

"  If  I  only  had  some  belief,  in  someone.  Something 
—  besides  myself  —  and  you,"  he  stammered,  "  now  Na- 
ture and  this  land  have  failed." 

She  fixed  him  with  her  deep  oval  eyes ;  but  he  shrank 
from  her,  his  head  plunged  on  his  bosom,  swarming  with 
oppressive  doubts. 

"  Oh,  don't  think,"  she  cried,  "  I'm  not  just  as  miser- 
able, wanting  the  same  what  you  crave  .  .  .  the  kid." 

Her  voice  filled,  tender,  anguished.  It  was  her  first, 
avowed  confession. 

"  Clara ! "  He  stared  at  her,  palpitant  there, 
through  a  glad  mist. 


THE    WIFE  401 

He  deserved  a  taunt,  scorn,  irony,  for  his  repudia- 
tions ;  but  with  the  finality  and  insight  of  that  creature 
of  the  wild  she  was,  Clara  rallied  and  overwhelmed  him 
with  this  trumpet-call.  .  .  .  And  once  he  had  inspired 
her  deliverance  —  from  Lamar.  Gail  felt  with  shame 
that  the  place  of  man  and  woman  had  been  transposed. 

Clara  wiped  her  hands,  put  the  dishes  on  the  shelf, 
and  took  up  the  moccasins  that  she  had  been  embroid- 
ering. Gail  plunged  out  into  the  store  to  cool  and  as- 
semble his  thoughts. 

ii 

Chelthan  behind  the  counter,  among  bolts  of  calico, 
cutlery,  rusty  bacon  sides,  still  was  clucking  to  the 
bright-shawled  squaw.  The  crippled  boy,  Ataka,  was 
bundling  moose  hides.  The  oily  nutritious  tang  of  sal- 
mon exuded  from  the  three.  Distraught,  Gail  sat  on  a 
heap  of  flour  sacks.  The  old  man,  with  a  touch  of 
Russian  blood  in  his  square  brow  and  the  grey  fuzz  on 
his  chin  (that  he  plucked  out  with  copper  pincers) 
summed,  in  the  querulous,  privation-graved  lines  of  his 
simple  face  the  calm  monotony  of  Gail's  life  as  a  trader, 
his  rule  and  power  over  the  savages. 

His  people!  Here,  far  from  the  stream  of  gold- 
seekers,  their  racial  traits  yet  undistorted,  good-faith 
and  sincerity  were  mutual.  Yet  they  were  doomed  in 
any  future  for  the  land.  Improvidence  was  the  deep 
canker  in  their  fire  and  endurance  on  the  hunt.  In  his 
defeat  Gail  had  engrossed  himself  with  them ;  they  had 
mitigated  it;  he  had  found  an  ease  in  life  which  went 
against  the  grain  of  his  masterful  aspirations.  And 
this  was  wrong,  false  to  the  allegiance  to  his  elemental 
dreams,  to  be  content,  cut  off  from  the  prevailing  mul- 
titude, whatever  its  end  in  the  North  might  be. 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

He  disliked  the  acute  and  citified  foremen  of  the  can- 
neries. Untouched  by  and  ignorant  of  the  true  North, 
they  looked  upon  it  as  a  summer  purgatory.  Except 
Steve  Merril,  and  Mike  Azoff  once  a  year,  he  had  no 
white  friends  but  little  Shainfut,  the  Jew  fur-buyer,  and 
poor  Roberts,  dulled  and  degraded,  an  outcast  from 
natives  and  whitemen  alike  for  his  miscegenation.  The 
trader  came  in  March,  joking  and  shivering  in  his 
costly  sea-otter  coat  at  the  square  deal  he  gave  for 
Gail's  pelts.  Sim  spent  all  day  fishing  for  grayling  in 
the  creeks  from  the  hills.  And  he  had  once  been  a 
revenue  cutter  engineer,  on  the  Pribyloff  patrol, 
cashiered  for  clumsily  smuggling  seal-skins. 

Gail  sought  the  board-walk  in  front  of  the  post.  It 
ran  the  length  of  the  settlement,  on  a  strip  of  shore 
under  the  sculptured  terraces  of  the  estuary,  between 
a  squdgy  tidal  creek  and  the  sea-arm.  The  shingle 
dropped  fronv  his  feet  for  the  sheer  five  fathoms  of  the 
tide,  upon  miles  of  oozy,  glistening  reaches,  where  white 
gulls  shrieked  and  circled;  but  this  morning  the  flood 
tide  washed  up  to  the  coarse-leaved  sand  plants  which  in 
summer  bloomed  with  yellow  flowers  in  the  large  gravel 
by  his  door.  The  tide !  Twice  a  day  its  brown  waters 
poured  inland  at  seven  miles  an  hour,  and  that  welling 
and  ebb  measured  time  and  the  years  there,  governed 
travel  and  life,  milled  eternity.  Half  sunk  under- 
ground, the  native  barrabaras,  with  their  rotted  logs 
patched  or  gaping,  and  on  each  mud  roof  a  brown  wrack 
of  tall  weeds,  now  seemed  floating  away  on  its  glazy  sur- 
face. And  the  drying  standards  for  salmon,  with  poles 
askew,  still  loaded  with  the  split  and  gutted  red  fish,  half 
dried  and  half  decayed ;  the  tall  winter  caches  like  huge 
rickety  bird-houses  on  the  tops  of  high  piles,  cast  gro- 
tesque and  sinuous  reflections.  It  was  a  village  asleep ; 


THE   WIFE  403 

only  tips  of  the  long  swamp  grass  showed  on  the  water ; 
mangy  and  mongrel  dogs  dozed  on  their  door-steps; 
invisible  within,  the  bucks  lolled  and  smoked,  the 
klootchmen  forever  mended  moccasins. 

But  soon  the  water  began  to  fall  furtively,  and  Chig- 
mit  awoke.  Matted  tussocks  emerged  green  and  shiny, 
about  the  leafy  shelters  where  untended  fires  boiled  the 
fresh  fish.  Slimy  hillocks  of  clay  appeared  on  the  creek 
side,  threaded  by  soggy  paths ;  and  down  these  trooped 
the  squaws  packing  their  infants,  whining  dogs,  chil- 
dren; and  frowsy  girls  with  large  wicker  nets  at  the 
ends  of  short  poles,  to  sit  in  the  high  tufts  of  grass  and 
ply  them  swiftly,  for  the  last  run  of  salmon  was  on. 
Thus  they  had  lived  on  this  sub-Arctic  coast  before 
the  fabulous  days  of  the  Russians.  And  they  had  won 
Gail  —  even  the  stink,  the  sordidness,  the  savage  con- 
fusion; the  piercing  yelps  of  their  ravening  wolf-dogs 
beaten  on  the  forage;  the  dishevelled  women  hacking 
the  scarlet  fish,  where  blow-flies  hid  their  maggot-nour- 
ishing eggs.  It  had  all  become  life  to  him. 

He  marked  Roberts'  cabin  up  on  the  terrace,  in  its 
square  potato  patch  slanted  to  catch  the  sun.  His 
squaw  was  digging  there,  bending  in  a  calico  sun-bon- 
net over  the  dead  and  draggled  vines,  likely  still  igno- 
rant of  Sim's  death.  These  Aleuts  shrank  from  spread- 
ing sorrow,  refined  pain  by  secrecy.  Their  reserve 
toward  death  seemed  somehow  linked,  blightingly,  with 
their  unaggressiveness  in  life.  But  the  little  blue 
porch,  under  the  one  window  in  its  tiny  gable,  seemed 
eloquent  of  Sim,  and  of  the  wreck  he  was,  moon-faced 
and  degenerate  for  having  violated  the  axiom  of  race 
survival. 

Anchored  below  the  church,  lay  the  great  bark  that 
sailed  from  'Frisco  in  May  with  Chinamen  for  the  A. 


404       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

T.  Go's,  canneries.  Now  after  the  storm,  leafy  squares 
of  canvas  were  rising  to  her  yards.  Her  gross  and  red- 
dish yet  trim  hull  was  getting  underway  to  return  with 
the  season's  pack.  Gail  would  be  glad  when  she  was 
gone,  for  the  despoiling  factories  recalled  Madge  Arnold 
and  her  suicidal  pioneering.  Always  his  friendliness 
with  Merril  had  been  chilled  by  their  back-ground,  al- 
though Steve  had  ever  seemed  to  be  revolting  from  his 
bondage,  and  was  the  one  link  that  Gail  had  with  man- 
kind. 

No  I  He  had  not  been  unhappy.  But  there  lay  his 
weakness,  the  softness  against  which  Trueblood  had 
warned.  Happiness  had  never  been  the  end  of  his  self- 
seeking.  He  could  win  only  by  a  ruthless  fight,  against 
all  that  was  false  in  life,  its  vanities,  illusions,  every 
source  of  flagging  manhood  and  decay,  even  that  now 
surrounding  him ;  by  hardness,  persistence,  goading  on 
the  strong,  in  purpose,  blotting  out  the  consuming  weak. 
This  ease  had  chilled  his  ardour  for  gold,  that  prime 
source  of  the  bread  without  which  life  could  not  breed. 
All  his  solutions  had  failed.  Here,  in  the  dark  of  a 
dead  age,  remoter  from  civilisation  than  any  lonely 
trail,  he  had  lost  his  grip  on  the  wilderness.  Living 
had  become  a  slothful  changeling  of  his  perils  on  Mt. 
Lincoln,  of  the  strife  against  Lamar  and  mushing  with 
the  Yukon  elect ;  he  had  become  a  part  of  Chigmit,  quite 
as  of  Chickaman.  He  had  trusted  too  much  to  that 
destiny  which  had  given  him  Clara  and  gold;  it  had 
insidiously  enervated  him.  Flexible,  acquiescent,  he 
was  not  even  restless.  He  deserved  to  lose. 

And  he  had  prated  to  her  of  his  faith  in  life.  Yet 
life  was  not  gained  by  faith  alone,  but  by  war!  A 
revulsion  seized  him.  Relentless  Nature  had  taken  the 
bit  in  her  teeth,  tricked  his  slow-moving  idealism.  He 


THE    WIFE  405 

could  deceive  himself  no  longer.  He  had  not  even  been 
happy.  He  was  at  the  same  nadir  of  hope  as  in  the 
Yanaga  camps.  Woman  and  the  land  had  not  re- 
quited him-.  There  remained  only  the  self  —  the  self 
ever ;  the  lone  man's  power  of  soul  and  sinew ;  his  brain, 
with  the  wild  beast's  roving  menace,  destroying  that 
he  should  be  perpetuated,  blind  to  charity  or  death  — 
even  to  the  hardy  hosts  that  should  inherit  the  North, 
that  multitude  in  its  remoteness  now  —  the  herd! 

Suddenly,  low  and  distant,  a  reverberating  murmur 
shattered  these  searing  thoughts.  Gail  raised  his  head, 
stiffened,  gazing  down  the  bay.  The  hoarse  whistle 
persisted. 

His  eyes  made  out  a  darkish  speck  —  the  Alice  — 
creeping  across  the  gleaming  waste,  just  under  the  plumy 
tree  of  steam  ascending  from  the  St.  Sophia. 

Beside  himself,  Gail  shouted  to  the  cabin. 

ra 

In  a  moment  Clara  in  her  blue  calico  had  joined  him. 
Speechless,  breathing  quickly,  they  watched  the  tiny 
black  hulk,  with  her  soiled  foresail  and  one  slim  stack, 
creep  like  a  cardboard  toy,  slowly  growing  larger, 
toward  the  bleak  cape  below  the  settlement. 

"  They'll  just  make  it  to  here,  bucking  this  ebb," 
said  Gail  after  a  time,  seizing  one  of  Clara's  hands. 
"  Have  to  anchor  close  in,  if  they've  got  horses,  and  go 
out  on  the  next  tide." 

The  presence  of  these  unknown  men,  holding  his  fate 
in  hand ;  their  looks  and  natures,  approaching  this  void 
coast,  filled  with  resolutions,  desires,  all  the  preconceived 
convictions  of  civilisation,  sprang  out  to  confuse  him. 
Gail  saw  himself  disputed  as  a  proprietor  of  the  North. 
He  bristled  inwardly,  resenting  their  power  of  the  world 


406       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

outside,  with  which  his  isolation  hail  as  if  for  an  eternity 
lost  him  any  touch.  A  wave  of  misgiving  swept  him. 
How  was  he  prepared  for  this  final  showdown? 

"  Hark ! "  exclaimed  Clara,  shading  her  eyes  with  a 
hand. 

Though  crawling  at  a  snail's  pace,  the  Alice  was  now 
close  in.  A  smudge  of  brown  smoke,  from  the  Cook 
Inlet  lignite  that  she  dug  from  the  shore  and  burned, 
lay  in  a  low  trail  over  the  chilly  wilderness  of  the  sea. 
Clara  had  caught  the  rattle  of  a  winch.  They  saw  the 
square  covers  of  the  fo'castle  hatch  opening. 

"  Then  they've  got  horses,  and  mean  business,"  she 
said.  "  Livestock  always  goes  forward  aboard." 

Their  sluggish,  peaceful  world  was  being  overturned. 
Gail's  arm  stole  about  her  waist  in  a  warm  embrace 
of  protection  —  self-protection.  The  awkward  hulk 
seemed  to  have  stopped,  under  a  wedge  of  wan  gold  in 
that  sky  streaked  with  cloud  and  darkness.  They  stood 
rooted,  hearing  their  heart-beats. 

"  I  wonder  what  they're  like,"  Gail  succeeded  in  say- 
ing. "  This  Eleven,  and  how  many  others." 

"Mightn't  almost  anyone  help  us  out?"  said  Clara, 
wistfully.  "Any  pace  they  put  us  through."  And 
her  daring  arose  before  Gail,  assuringly,  virile  yet  ever 
womanly,  ready  to  be  stretched  without  snapping  to  the 
breaking-point. 

They  heard  the  rumble  of  an  anchor  chain.  Again 
the  whistle ;  and  scarcely  was  its  ribbon  of  steam  whipped 
to  blanknesss,  than  all  the  dogs  of  Chigmit  broke  loose. 
Howls  echoed  the  blast,  distorted  it,  in  that  weird,  sav- 
age crescendo,  so  unseating  to  whitemen's  ears  no  matter 
how  familiar,  that  essence  of  the  tragedy  in  hunger 
and  the  white  cold. 

The  beasts  stirred  from  the  clayey  dust  of  their  beds, 


THE   WIFE  407 

out  of  the  creek;  plunged  down  and  up  the  little  paths 
across  it;  scattered  and  slunk  away  as  they  neared  the 
store,  and  the  blind  bravado  of  their  uproar  died  in 
cowardly  whines.  Then  a  patter  of  moccasins;  and 
the  young  squaws  appeared,  tousle-haired  and  bare- 
legged, scuttling  after;  the  slow-motioned,  burgeoning 
mothers,  with  heads  and  babes  shawled ;  and  last,  hands 
in  pockets,  the  lounging  bucks  in  red  jerseys  and  citi- 
fied felt  hats,  over  faces  set  in  a  vapid  insolence. 

They  gathered  around  Gail,  for  perhaps  the  last  time, 
intent  on  the  big  monthly  event  of  the  year.  Patri- 
archal Nicolai,  solemn  Chelthan,  Sim's  wife  in  her  sun- 
bonnet,  the  limping  Ataka.  The  creatures  who  served 
him  as  a  father,  whom  Clara  nursed  in  their  squalor 
when  sick.  There  was  supplication  in  their  silent  looks. 
It  seemed  as  if  their  shy  glances  owned  that  some 
epochal  change  was  at  hand.  A  sense  of  loss  and  re- 
gret filled  Gail's  heart,  a  foretaste  of  homesickness  at 
the  breaking  ties. 

The  Alice  swung  at  anchor.  The  gurgle  of  the  out- 
boiling  tide  sounded  on  her  ice-scarred  prow.  Beyond, 
a  great  root  floated  past  like  a  swimming  bear. 

"  There's  Sarah  Shaw  at  the  wheel,"  said  Clara,  indi- 
cating the  squat  cubical  pilot-house,  and  the  prim,  bony 
woman,  famous  in  the  North,  leaning  from  it  in  a  knit 
grey  jacket.  "  Jim's  drunk  below,  of  course,  when  he 
smells  port." 

"  Wonder  how  they  stood  the  blow,"  said  Gail.  "  I 
don't  see  anything  carried  away.  Hello.  .  .  .  There 
they  are." 

He  pointed  forward,  to  the  open  hatch.  Two  figures, 
one  tall  and  lean,  one  short  and  stocky,  younger, 
had  appeared  around  it.  In  the  new  light-coloured 
khaki  of  chechakos,  they  stood  out  distinct  among  the 


408       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

weathered,  hulking  forms  of  the  Norse  sailors,  who  were 
ready  with  ropes  and  tackle  to  unload  the  horses. 

A  third  person  like  them  emerged  from  the  wheel- 
house. 

"  More  than  two's  in  the  party,"  said  Clara.  "  There 
must  be.  By — !  That's  the  other,  in  the  knicker- 
bockers." 

She  had  started,  withdrawn  herself  from  Gail's  arms. 
She  shot  him  a  fearsome  glance,  filled  with  the  boding  of 
a  woman's  intuition. 

"Walks  funny,  doesn't  he?"  said  Gail  of  the  new- 
comer; then  paused,  adding,  "And  wears  his  hat — " 

He  fixed  his  in-sloping  eyebrows  at  an  acuter  angle. 
He  felt  his  high  cheekbones  flush  and  his  nostrils  pucker. 

"  Moves  like  — "  he  hesitated,  "  a  woman  togged  out 
in  men's  clothes." 

"  It  is,"  affirmed  Clara. 

The  woman  was  talking  to  the  first  pair  and  dressed 
as  they;  plainly  there  were  no  other  passengers;  un- 
questionably the  trio  were  one  outfit. 

Gail  saw  Clara's  breast  lift,  quivering,  and  fall.  She 
stepped  out  of  his  sight,  behind  him.  They  stood  rigid, 
silent  and  dumbfounded. 

IV 

The  first  horse,  a  sorrel,  dangled  above  the  hatch 
from  the  spidery  arm  of  the  winch,  suspended  in  a  rope 
mat  looped  around  his  belly.  He  struggled  desperately, 
as  he  swung  aloft  over  the  racing  tide,  whipping  neck 
and  mane,  back  humped  and  four  legs  converging  help- 
lessly. The  stolid  sailors,  now  in  bright  slickers,  had 
lowered  a  boat  with  curses  and  warnings  about  the  cur- 
rent. The  beast  dropped,  dove,  splashed  sprawling  be- 
side it.  At  first  he  tried  to  swim  upright,  furiously 


THE    WIFE  409 

beating  spray  with  his  forelegs.  The  men  shouted, 
tugged  at  their  oars  against  the  rip,  headed  him  for 
shore. 

Another  and  another  were  yanked  up  at  the  intermit- 
tent grinding  of  the  hoist,  plunged  overboard  into  white 
geysers.  Out  of  a  continuous  tumult  of  oaths  and  shout- 
ing, a  broken  procession  of  them  aimed  swimming  for 
the  beach,  bucking  the  ebb,  arching  their  necks  and 
haunches  against  its  force,  snorting  frenziedly  through 
stretched  nostrils.  Unable  to  make  land  in  front  of  the 
store,  they  slid  sidewise  far  down  the  spit. 

"Want  to  have  them  drown,  do  they?"  broke  out 
Gail  once. 

One  by  one  they  ploughed  out  on  the  flat  at  the  creek- 
mouth,  wearily  lifting  bedraggled  withers  and  shoulders. 
They  shivered,  dazed  for  a  moment;  then,  with  a  snort 
at  their  safety,  charged  off  careering,  prancing  in  all 
directions,  shaking  themselves,  up  and  down  the  shore. 

"  Damn  those  dogs  —  damn  them !  "  cried  Gail  quick- 
temperedly,  as  a  yelping  wave  of  them  sped  off  to  hound 
and  worry  the  terrified  animals.  "  Can't  they  shut  up, 
now  of  all  times?  " 

Chigmit  was  in  an  uproar.  All  the  bucks  and  young 
squaws,  who  had  been  watching  the  scene  intent  and 
muttering  to  themselves,  broke  after  their  beasts  with 
savage  exclamations,  to  round  up  the  horses  into  the 
old  corral  down  the  bar. 

Out  on  board,  the  after  hatch  was  open,  and  the  out- 
fit's freight  was  appearing  from  the  hold.  But  the  pas- 
sengers were  to  go  ashore  first.  The  three  figures  had 
collected  at  the  sea-ladder,  where  the  crew,  now  with 
the  cutter  alongside,  held  her  in  the  surging  water,  and 
called  up  to  the  deck  for  them  to  embark.  But  only 
one  of  them  did  so  (there  being  no  room  in  the  boat  for 


410       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

the  other  two),  the  shorter  and  younger,  somewhat 
chunky  figure.  For  a  second  he  peered  gingerly  over 
the  rail,  then  lithely  seized  the  ropes,  and  dropped  down 
with  an  athletic  swing  into  the  stern.  And  just  as  she 
was  shoving  off,  a  sallow  man  in  blue  carrying  a  canvas 
sack,  whom  Gail  marked  as  Mortimer,  the  purser,  with 
his  mail-bag,  followed  and  joined  him. 

Gail  and  Clara  watched  them  draw  closer,  slantwise, 
buffeted  by  the  tide,  the  sailors  working  like  automatons. 
Their  broad,  moving  shoulders  hid  the  stranger.  But 
hard  as  they  rowed,  Gail' s  store  slipped  upstream. 
Clara  started  down  for  the  back-eddy  which  the  horses 
had  gained,  and  Gail  followed  her,  close  and  quickly. 
When  they  reached  it,  the  heavy  craft  had  grounded, 
the  bearded  rowers  were  pulling  in  their  oars  with  a 
clatter,  and  Mortimer  had  leaped  to  the  beach. 

"  One  letter  for  you,  Thain,"  said  the  purser,  "  and 
the  only  one.  Looks  like  Merril's  fist.  I'll  sign  and 
leave  it  in  the  store,"  he  added,  as  if  he  had  seen  Gail 
but  yesterday;  and  hurrying  past,  climbed  the  bank. 
It  struck  Gail  that  there  might  be  discretion  in  his 
brevity.  Mortimer  must  have  learned  all  Eleven's  pur- 
poses in  their  long  voyage. 

"  Hello  —  you're  Thain  ?  "  then  said  the  man  in  whose 
hands  lay  the  future.  He  spoke  with  a  bold  assur- 
ance, in  a  voice  rather  high-pitched,  as  he  extended  his 
right  arm  in  greeting. 

"  Eleven,  yes,"  answered  Gail,  taking  it,  and  out- 
doing his  decision ;  but  with  an  effort,  and  conscious 
that  the  fellow's  dark  greenish  eyes  were  fixed  on  Clara. 

"  My  God,  I'm  glad  to  see  you ! "  averred  Eleven. 
"Knew  you  right  off.  How  goes  it?" 

"  We've  been  thinking  it  didn't  '  go,'  till  just  now," 


THE    WIFE  411 

Clara  cut  in  lightly.  "  I'm  his  wife,  Mrs.  Thain. 
Stephen  Merril  told  you?  " 

"Ah — "  Eleven  bowed  as  if  taken  a-back.  There 
was  a  silent  moment. 

He  was  young,  rather  muscled  than  heavy;  and  his 
features  small  in  proportion;  dark  and  smooth-skinned 
yet  not  sallow.  His  hair,  black,  straight,  and  some- 
what oily,  curved  in  a  shock  upon  a  wide,  high  fore- 
head. His  shaven  chin  was  narrow  but  square,  with  two 
dimples  low  at  the  sides  of  queerly  thin,  compressed 
lips.  Above  all,  his  flesh  hid  a  strong  frame,  and  he 
stood  slightly  bow-legged,  with  an  athlete's  out-bent 
knees. 

"  Where  were  you  in  the  blow?  "  began  Gail. 

He  answered  in  a  tone  as  if  Gail  should  have  known, 
"  Why,  Herndon  Bay.  Battened  down  and  anchored 
in  the  lee  of  old  Sophia,  you  bet ! " 

He  smiled  with  an  almost  aggressive  geniality ;  but  a 
large  vein  running  down  the  middle  of  his  smooth  fore- 
head, between  his  lustrous  eyes,  swelled  for  an  instant 
and  gave  his  face  a  look  of  strain. 

"  Some  tide  you've  got  here,"  he  said  abruptly, 
glancing  seaward,  where  the  cutter  was  pulling  back 
to  the  steamer.  "  Must  be  fifty  feet  where  the  Nushak 
pinches  her.  Had  a  scow  now,  we  could  sail  the  outfit 
up  when  we  start  tomorrow."  He  paused;  then, 
"What  doesn't  go?" — but  he  had  turned  to  Clara. 
"  You  don't  need  to  tell  me  the  grass  is  frozen  every- 
wheres  on  your  smiling  ttmdras.  We  got  forty  bales 
Yakima  timothy  for  the  horses." 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  said,  with  a  justified  glance  at 
Gail,  "  about  the  horses." 

"  That's  right  for  this  season,  with  snow  coming," 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Gail  conceded,  all  apathy  crumbling  before  the  man's 
buoyant  resolution,  his  unexpected  fore-reading  of  the 
land.  "  But  you're  not  set  to  start  tomorrow." 

"Ain't  I?  "  he  laughed  aloud,  but  more  with  encour- 
agement than  disdain  for  Gail's  first  reluctance. 

"  We  can't  carry  feed  with  a  pack-train,"  persisted 
Gail  decisively.  "  Have  you  got  sleds?  We'll  have  to 
wait  anyhow  for  snow." 

"Sleds?  Sure  I  And  pray  for  snow,"  he  inter- 
jected, with  a  not  unpleasant  irony,  and  plunged  on, 
"  Then  there'll  be  your  dogs.  But  didn't  Steve  write 
you  the  conditions  of  my  option  ?  Of  course  —  Morty's 
got  the  letter.  You'll  want  to  hot-foot  it  to  the  Tsana 
faster  than  I  do  when  you  read  her,  if  all  Steve's  told 
me  about  Gail  Thain  is  true.  You  might  have  heard, 
too,  at  that." 

"Heard  what?"  demanded  Gail. 

Bleven's  eyes  narrowed  on  him,  but  with  a  grin  too 
compelling  to  arouse  resentment  even  when  he  explained, 
"  That  you've  been  loose-mouthed  about  this  find  of  ours. 
Talked  too  much,  I  judge,  the  same  as  I  do.  It's  all 
over  the  States,  spread  by  these  canners.  Seattle's 
booming  the  Tsana  for  spring.  The  rabble's  coming. 
We've  got  to  act  quick,  be  on  the  river  first.  And  by 
hell,  we  can  do  it!" 

For  an  instant  Gail's  body  burned,  both  in  shame  for 
his  indiscretion  and  with  offence  at  the  man's  harsh 
frankness.  But  his  sharp  insistence  was  uplifting. 
All  the  hot  intensity  of  Gail's  visions  in  Chickaman, 
of  his  transfigured  life  as  he  had  knelt  in  the  gulch  that 
May  afternoon,  gold  in  his  hands,  swept  through  him, 
fired  at  last.  Bleven  was  the  man,  it  struck  him,  for 
such  an  enterprise,  for  a  race  like  this.  The  glamour 
of  his  eldorado,  the  leadership  in  the  North  that  he  had 


THE   WIFE 

dreamed  of,  could  be  regained.  So  this  was  the  reason 
for  Merril's  absurd  compact!  He  saw  and  felt  all  that 
feverish  power  of  a  stampede,  the  relentless,  dramatic 
turmoil  of  distant  multitudes,  the  hordes  of  an  Hoch- 
erda  and  the  chosen  of  the  North,  mixed  indistinguish- 
ably  before  his  own  conquering  in  the  wild  spaces. 

Clara's  quick  breathing  brought  him  to  earth. 

"  I  told  you,  Gail.  I  told  you  — "  she  said,  laying 
a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  her  head  bent  intently  forward. 
He  saw  the  exuberant  curl  of  her  firm  lips. 

"Oh,  Eleven.  My  wife — "  he  began  firmly.  "I 
wrote  Steve.  She's  coming  with  us." 

Eleven  started  and  eyed  Gail,  but  with  a  good-hu- 
moured if  curious  smile.  "  Of  course.  ...  So  is 
mine." 

For  a  moment  they  looked  open-mouthed  at  one 
another ;  then  Eleven,  as  if  oblivious  of  Clara,  let  out  a 
chuckle,  which  to  Gail  tightened  their  bond. 

"  Out  there,"  she  cut  in,  confronting  Eleven.  "  Is 
that  who  she  is?  Your  wife?  " 

Gail  started,  looked  out  toward  the  Alice,  as  if  he  had 
forgotten  the  woman  in  trousers,  and  his  face  fell. 
Eleven  paled  slightly;  his  features  clouded,  then 
set. 

"  Well,  you  know  in  this  country,"  he  hesitated,  turn- 
ing to  Gail,  "  how  a  man  gets  fixed." 

"  Talk  to  her  about  that,"  said  Gail,  motioning  to 
Clara  with  a  sudden  uneasiness,  his  eyes  still  lingering 
off-shore. 

"  Oh,  don't  mind  me,"  she  interposed  coldly.  "  I 
know  about  women  up  here.  We'll  be  quite  a  party." 

"  I'm  off  for  those  horses,"  said  Gail,  breaking  the 
instant  of  silence.  "  Clara,  take  him  up  to  the  shack. 
And  get  that  letter  from  Morty  and  read  it." 


4U       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  Come  on,  Mr.  Eleven.  You  stopped  in  Valdez  — " 
and  Gail  heard  her  ask  him  about  John  Hartline's  law- 
suit ;  his  answer  that  it  was  still  "sub  judice" 

But  as  they  went,  Gail  did  not  stir.  Hands  in  his 
pockets,  he  gazed  out  to  the  black  ship.  The  landing- 
boat  was  again  at  the  ladder,  which  the  two  remaining 
passengers  were  now  descending.  Something  engrossed 
him  in  the  movement  of  the  woman's  knees  in  their  knick- 
erbockers. His  eyes  widened,  his  lips  parted.  Once 
he  turned  to  see  Clara,  speaking  earnestly,  her  black 
hair  flowing  in  the  raw  wind,  beside  Eleven  who  was 
walking  in  his  muscle-bound  way.  The  natives,  having 
stood  apart  during  their  talk,  followed  them  at  a  dis- 
tance, leaving  Gail  alone. 

Down  the  spit,  he  could  see  the  corral  now  filled  with 
horses.  The  dogs  were  still  worrying  them.  Their 
backs  moved  above  the  log  fence,  on  which  several  shout- 
ing young  bucks  were  perched. 

But  the  cutter  had  cast  off  again. 

The  woman  and  the  lean  man  approached,  also  con- 
cealed behind  the  slickered  oarsmen.  Yet  as  always  in 
a  repeated  scene,  they  hove  down  upon  Gail  with  creak- 
ing thole-pins  twice  as  quickly.  He  remembered  after- 
ward what  had  seemed  their  reckless,  giddy  pace  on  the 
last  of  the  ebb.  Yet  mingled  with  this  was  the  thought 
that  they  would  have  to  hurry,  not  to  ground  and  lie 
stuck  on  the  mud-flats  for  six  hours,  for  the  bottom  was 
showing  yonder  in  glossy  domes  of  ooze.  But  immedi- 
ately that  the  boat  struck  beside  him,  a  haze  formed  in 
Gail's  eyes,  an  iron  hand  twisted  his  vitals,  and  he 
staggered  back. 

He  knew  the  woman  in  the  knickerbockers,  with  the 
broad  Stetson  hat  tilted  back  of  her  squarish,  blond 
features. 


THE    WIFE  415 


She  stood  before  him.     It  was  his  wife,  Arlene. 

Gail  felt  that  if  her  tall  companion  had  exclaimed  as 
he  saw  them  there,  white  face  to  face,  crouching  back 
with  fluttering  eyelids,  he  would  either  have  collapsed 
or  struck  the  man.  But  the  sharp-faced,  oldish  fellow 
grasped  some  dilemma  with  the  swift  incisiveness  of  his 
sort  on  the  frontier;  and  ducking  his  head,  yet  with  a 
smile  of  repressed  unction,  hurried  past  them  up  to  the 
post.  Gail  got  the  notion  of  lank,  bent  limbs,  a  heavy 
watch-chain  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  jumper;  of 
bristling  and  snow-white  hair  above  a  very  red  and 
hatchet  face  which  was  pitted  with  the  bluish  powder 
marks  that  an  exploding  cartridge  makes. 

For  a  while  neither  Gail  nor  Lena  spoke.  Breath 
had  left  them;  their  eyes  clashed  sightlessly.  The 
sailors,  hard  at  work  sloshing  in  mud  and  water  up  to 
their  knees,  were  pushing  out  the  boat,  oblivious  of  the 
meeting. 

Gail  strove,  by  grasping  the  present  and  the  future, 
to  breast  the  choking  avalanche  of  the  past,  the  marvel 
and  mystering  of  the  intervening  years.  Could  Lena 
be  to  this  man  Eleven  what  Clara  was  to  him?  The 
coincidence  was  unlikely,  even  in  the  adventitious  life 
of  the  frontier.  Could  Lena  be  divorced  ?  —  he  thought 
fiercely.  ...  He  read  her,  steadying  her  soul  to  the 
mere  verity  of  existence. 

"  No !  It's  not  you  Gabriel,"  she  cried  in  falsetto, 
shivering.  "  But  it's  I,  yes,  Lena  —  come  to  this." 

"  To  what?  "  His  husky  challenge  was  involuntary. 
He  could  not  down  the  old  affection,  the  years  of  dreams 
and  tolerance  steeped  in  the  glamour  of  his  youth,  the 
naked  confidence  that  welds  the  once-beloved  no  matter 


416       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

how  or  why  repudiated.  Equally  her  sordid  revela- 
tions, the  blighting  revulsion,  that  had  driven  him  from 
the  strawberry  fields,  and  the  disloyalty,  even  cowardice, 
of  his  broken  promise  to  return,  faded  in  those  braver 
memories. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,"  she  beseeched.  "  I  couldn't  stand 
the  life  without  you.  I've  searched,  looked  for  you 
everywhere.  You  were  my  only  hope  out  of  where  I 
sank.  But  understand — "  her  voice  was  gathering 
vehemence,  "  I  gave  up  hope  long  ago.  You  failed 
in  your  word  not  to  desert  me,  and  I've  not  come  here 
to  be  your  wife." 

"  You're  not  my  wife  ?  "  Gail's  heart  leaped  to  the 
coveted  inkling. 

"  Wait ! "  she  succumbed  again,  penitent  with  shame. 
He  saw  the  forced  pride  of  her  charge.  Her  full  breast 
shook.  The  oblong  brow  above  her  pale  and  bird-like 
eyes,  under  the  frizzled  yellow  hair,  grew  distorted. 
Gail  was  torn  in  self-reproach,  foreboding,  guilt,  be- 
tween thrusting  her  from  him  and  taking  her  into  his 
arms.  Then, 

"  C-can't  you  see  —  everything?  "  she  broke  into  un- 
appeasable sobs  of  self-pity  and  exasperation. 

The  poignancy  of  her  abasement  spread  through 
Gail  slowly,  with  a  festering  pain. 

And  yet  as  she  stood  there,  her  face  bowed,  hands  limp 
at  her  sides,  he  could  not  stifle  the  thought  that  she 
seemed  in  some  way  younger,  fresher,  than  before;  in 
that  bloom  from  the  practise  of  vice  that  is  a  paradox 
of  life,  even  in  the  mothers  of  men;  her  strength  more 
feminine,  clinging;  less  resigned,  and  sorrowful  as  she 
never  could  have  been.  In  such  an  estimate  of  her  na- 
ture, so  fortified,  he  could  not  down  a  sense  of  justifica- 
tion for  having  abandoned  her.  He  could  not  speak; 


THE   WIFE  417 

yet,  as  he  waited  for  her  confession,  he  was  curiously 
revolted  by  her  stout  legs  in  their  red  stockings,  the 
baggy,  in-bent  knees,  the  rakish  angle  of  the  man's  hat 
on  the  bulging  mass  of  her  back  hair.  She  should  have 
masqueraded  well  as  a  man;  her  sexlessness  denied  her 
even  that. 

"  There's  no  good  my  telling  every  move,"  she  re- 
covered herself  at  last,  blankly,  and  without  lifting  her 
eyes.  "  But  you  weren't  right  about  my  being  made  of 
better  stuff  —  remember?  —  and  going  up  in  the  world, 
free  of  you.  I  knew  I  couldn't.  I've  gone  down." 

"  Wrong !  "  cried  Gail  bitterly.  "  I've  always  been 
wrong." 

"  First  I  crashed  around  a  month  in  Seattle  with 
Madge  Arnold.  But  she  wasn't  the  same  as  I  thought 
she'd  be.  An  awful  tight-wad.  Half  her  ideas  were 
only  a  bluff.  She  hadn't  the  nerve  to  live  them  out  — 
minded  what  people  might  think  of  her  looseness  — 
talked  of  her  '  position.'  .  .  ." 

That  woman's  malign  gospel  for  the  West  stirred  in 
Gail's  ears,  above  the  roar  of  city  multitudes.  And  he 
felt  a  grim  satisfaction  in  how  Lena's  envy  and  adula- 
tion of  her  had  crumbled. 

"  Mother  had  married  again  when  I  got  back  to  Sac- 
ramento," continued  Arlene.  "  I  couldn't  stomach  the 
man  —  a  parson.  She's  got  two  boys  by  him.  Funny, 
isn't  it,  with  me  so  wanting?  "  She  paused.  "  Well, 
without  money  no  woman  stands  a  show  keeping  good 
down  on  the  Coast." 

Gail  winced  with  a  carking  hate  of  self  for  the  piti- 
able doom  that  his  wilful  hunger  in  life  had  so  inevitably 
fostered;  yet  also  with  a  faint  scorn  of  her  old  fatal- 
ism. 

"  In  San  Francisco,  before  I  finally  gave  'way,  I  went 


418       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

into  a  French  Restaurant  on  Pacific  Street  one  night. 
Mother'd  been  there,  sight-seeing,  and  used  to  talk 
about  it  as  a  hell.  That  was  one  reason  I  went.  Like 
me,  wasn't  it  ?  "  Her  voice  was  hardening,  with  a  slight 
mockery.  She  went  on :  "  Madge  was  there  with  Perry 
Eleven.  They  had  met  through  a  friend  of  yours  — 
a  Mr.  Merril  I  think,  though  I  never  saw  him  —  who  was 
in  the  canning  business,  like  her.  That  was  the  first  I 
heard  of  you.  So  I  knew  your  Martha's  boy  must  have 
died  if  you  were  in  Alaska." 

Gail  held  his  breath  to  detect  any  hint  of  her  relish 
in  that;  but  her  tone  kept  its  monotony. 

"  Madge  took  me  back  to  Seattle,  but  we  drifted  apart 
after  our  last  row.  Then  I  began  to  read  in  the  news- 
papers about  your  fight  with  the  Lamar  crowd,  and  they 
made  you  out  a  sort  of  hero.  That  set  me  to  thinking 
of  you  a  lot.  And  it  was  then  my  worst  came.  Not 
only  in  the  Berlin  and  the  Olympia.  I  went  to  places 
lower  down  that  I  used  to  pass  when  I  did  the  mission 
work  —  that  you  must  have  known.  That  was  part 
why  they  drew  me.  And  father's  bad  memory  in 
Seattle,  instead  of  making  me  hate  such  a  life  there,  got 
me  curious  and  hankering  toward  it.  The  perver- 
sity, I  guess,  you  used  to  blame  me  for.  ...  I  —  I 
can't  go  on.  .  .  ." 

Gail  groaned  with  self-disgust  and  humility,  even 
though  her  sneers  about  him  to  Madge,  her  anger  at 
his  thirst  for  paternity,  flashed  through  him  vividly. 
The  wreck  he  had  made,  so  carelessly,  wantonly,  of  her 
who  once  had  his  love !  And  meanwhile  on  Mt.  Lincoln, 
with  John  Hartline  and  Clara,  he  had  fought  for,  and  all 
but  won,  the  transcendent  wisdom  and  glory  of  living. 
That  was  the  tragedy ! 

"  One  day  I  met  Eleven  on  First  Avenue,"  she  man- 


THE    WIFE  419 

aged  to  continue.  "  He  was  full  of  you,  through  Mer- 
ril,  and  this  gold-strike  of  yours.  I'd  never  told  Perry 
I  knew  you.  He  isn't  wise  yet.  He  wanted  me  to  come 
up  here  with  him,  as  just  what  I  am,"  she  broke  off, 
her  fleshy  cheeks  colouring  as  he  had  never  seen  them. 
"  I  liked  him,  I  like  him  still.  I  consented,  but  mainly 
for  the  chance  of  seeing  you.  I'd  have  traveled  all  over 
Alaska  for  that.  Sometimes  I  thought  you'd  throw 
me  down,  and  then  I'd  remember  our  years  together 
—  you  alone  in  this  fierce  country.  I  couldn't  believe 
you'd  repudiate  me,  when  we  came  to  the  point.  And 
you  haven't  thrown  me,  Gail?  "  She  raised  her  stream- 
ing eyes,  wiped  them  with  a  grey  bandanna.  "  But  I 
never  thought  it  could  be  so  soon,  or  here.  Still,  life 
does  things  like  this.  It  has  to,  or  there'd  be  no  justice 
anywhere.  We'd  hate  or  love  it  too  much  to  keep  on." 

"  It's  I,  who  don't  deserve  to  be  forgiven,"  broke  out 
Gail,  overcome  by  her  old,  inexplicable  steadfastness, 
her  power  of  impersonally  chilling  feeling  by  analysis. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  it's  just  my  sentiment,"  she  con- 
ceded, u  and  that  really  I'm  quite  cold  to  you.  Maybe 
morose,  too." 

Could  Lena  have  become  like  Sydney?  Surely  her 
yearning  for  him  must  be  febrile.  And  instantly  the 
idea  thrilled  Gail :  To  redeem  her,  already  so  tempered 
from  degradation  —  yet  womanised  and  touqhed  with 
remorse  —  by  the  stern,  inspiriting  ordeals  of  Nature 
and  the  winter  trail.  Her  grim,  worldly  outlook,  all 
her  tolerance  won  from  suffering,  encouraged  him  to 
this.  Only  her  malleability,  under  the  dominance  of 
Eleven  as  she  had  been  ruled  by  Madge  Arnold,  warned 
him  of  failure,  in  that  the  man's  brisk  assurance  might 
be  hollow  vanity. 

For  a  time,  with  heads  bowed,  neither  spoke. 


420       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  Lena,  I  have  made  the  best  of  the  chance  you  gave 
me,"  ventured  Gail  at  length.  "  You've  got  to  know, 
anyway.  I've  been  living  here  nearly  two  years  with 
Martha's  sister  —  Clara.  Hartline,  not  Harlow,  was 
their  real  name.  I  think  I've  *  come  back  '  in  all  honour 
and  duty,  as  I  swore  I  should." 

Gail  tried  to  speak  casually,  but  his  heart  thumped 
with  a  specious  exhilaration  as  he  confessed,  hiding  in- 
stinctively his  enshrined  love  for  Clara.  Arlene  did  not 
start,  and  when  she  slowly  raised  her  head,  he  saw  not 
the  least  glint  of  jealousy  in  her  eyes. 

"I  suppose  you've  got  —  what  you  wanted?"  she 
asked,  more  carelessly,  quite  unresentful. 

"  No  .  .  ."  he  uttered,  choking. 

And  then  the  eager,  aggressive  curiosity  that  he  had 
withheld  toward  the  pivotal  matter  of  their  meeting, 
which  her  sad  avowals  of  the  past  had  so  obscured, 
mastered  Gail,  and  he  demanded: 

"  Aren't  you  divorced  from  me  ?     For  desertion  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer.  Her  glance  fell,  and  she  stood 
there,  rigid,  repellent. 

"  You  won't  tell  me?     Why  not?  " 

"  I  don't  see  what  good  anyone's  knowing  would  do, 
if  you  and  your  Clara  are  so  suited  together.  Espe- 
cially on  a  trip  like  we're  going  on,  all  of  us.  And  I 
did  want  to  be  near  you." 

"  She  ought  to  know  —  everything !  "  blazed  out  Gail. 
"  She  understands  about  you  and  Eleven  already,  as 
he  does  what  I  am  to  her." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  say  anything  to  hurt  your  Clara," 
evaded  Arlene  wearily.  "  I  guess  we've  both  been 
through  the  fire  with  men.  And  as  for  Perry  Eleven 
—  he'll  likely  laugh  when  I  tell  him  you  and  I've  been 
married,  as  I  suppose  I  must.  But  it's  not  in  my  con- 


THE    WIFE  421 

tract  with  him  to  know  more  about  me,  and  he  shan't, 
ever" 

Gail  stifled  an  imprecation.  Had  Lena  only  ap- 
peared to  control  her  jealousy?  Was  her  perversity, 
the  moroseness  that  she  admitted,  keeping  her  silent? 
A  twinge  of  desolation,  of  repugnance,  seized  Gail,  as 
he  reminded  himself  of  her  darker  qualities,  formerly 
accented  by  Madge,  as  now  they  would  be  by  Eleven. 
He  pondered  Trueblood's  words.  Woman!  The  de- 
lectable yearning  and  source  of  all  humankind ;  yet  the 
despoilers  of  men's  souls. 

But  he  stood  motionless,  deep  in  aching  thoughts, 
fighting  a  hot  impulse  to  denounce  her;  and  yet  supine, 
flooded  with  vague  fears  for  the  weeks  at  hand,  and 
dim  hopes  of  succouring  her. 

"  It's  all  up  to  the  wilderness,  I  guess,"  he  said 
calmly. 

Arlene  directed  him  a  sullen,  assenting  nod. 

Suddenly  a  wild,  unformulable  hope  burned  through 
Gail. 

"  The  trail  may  decide  how  it  will  all  work  out,"  he 
blurted,  "  and  in  more  ways  than  any  of  us  can  foresee. 
Perhaps  it's  to  be  the  last  test  of  what  all  our  lives 
mean.  And  that  would  be  right,  after  all." 

Gail  heard  the  scratch  of  new  cloth  as  she  started 
to  walk  up  the  shingle ;  felt  the  anomaly  of  her,  even  in 
the  motion  and  sound  of  her  legs  rubbing  together. 

Lena  had  gone. 

Chelthan  was  leading  a  string  of  the  horses  up  from 
the  corral,  followed  by  cowed  dogs  and  the  triumphant 
youth  of  Chigmit.  The  tide  was  dead  low.  Surly 
oaths  came  across  the  flats.  The  Alice's  boat  was  stuck 
in  the  mud,  piled  high  with  bales  of  hay,  square  boxes, 
large  canvas  sacks.  Stencilled  on  them  in  vivid  black 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

letters,  Gail  made  out,  "  Eleven  and  Scannon."  Scan- 
non  —  then  he  was  the  lean,  red  old  man  with  the  white, 
shoe-brush  hair,  the  fifth  in  the  outfit. 

Facing  what  seemed  to  be  the  final  and  greatest  drama 
of  his  life,  now  at  the  beginning,  Gail  wondered :  What 
of  that  dominating  force  outside  my  will,  which  has  so 
aided  me  before?  But  it  was  only  the  divinity  of 
the  Self!  What  of  that  Nature,  which  had  once  ap- 
peared to  guide  ever  to  the  good,  but  lately  had  failed? 
Was  it  not  the  Self,  likewise,  and  no  more?  This 
was  the  key  and  truth  of  existence,  won  neither  from 
mankind,  the  North,  nor  any  of  its  heroes:  that  the 
creative,  preying  Self  was  supreme  over  Life  and  Na- 
ture, that  he  had  always  served  it,  and  it  alone  —  that 
he  was  bound  to  the  omnipotence  of  Self  forever. 

Was  its  imperious  aim  in  him  never  to  be  vindicated? 
Must  he  flounder  unto  the  end,  acting  and  judging 
fruitlessly  between  those  poles  of  sympathy  and  murder*? 

Again  the  ecstatic  solution  dazed  him. 

He  glanced  up  toward  the  store.  In  front  of  his 
door,  Clara  and  Arlene  were  talking,  and  not  as  if  mis- 
trustful of  one  another. 

Gail  sighed  and  started  toward  them,  casting  a  look 
into  the  cloudy  sky.  Between  its  woolly  billows,  the 
deep  gaps  of  pale  gold  had  closed.  He  rose  above  the 
darkening  waste  of  moss  and  water.  He  heard  a  sift- 
ing sound  in  the  dead  leaves  of  the  coarse  weeds  by  the 
board-walk. 

It  had  begun  to  snow. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  HAPPY  VALLEY 


"  I'M  done  arguing  against  a  man  so  wilful  as  Eleven," 
said  Gail,  as  they  descended  toward  the  timber.  "  He'd 
better  learn  his  lesson  now,  than  when  we're  nearer  starv- 
ing." 

The  bell  on  the  sorrel  mare  hitched  to  the  first  sled 
jangled  on  over  the  left  shoulder  of  Pete  Scannon's 
checkered  mackinaw. 

"  These  cayuses  never  could  shin  that  ice-bench,  nor 
jump  those  crevasses  on  the  back-trail,"  Gail  went  on. 
"  The  half  rations  has  done  for  them." 

Yesterday,  the  summit  of  that  unforeseen  glacier  had 
seen  the  first  desperate  hours  of  their  six  weeks  in  the 
trailless  winter  waste.  They  had  unharnessed  the  ter- 
rified, huddled  horses,  blinded  by  the  ice-scud;  beaten 
them,  with  nickering  noses  close  to  the  crust,  to  leap 
crevasse  after  crevasse,  hidden  by  treacherous  grooves 
of  snow.  They  had  roped  the  sleds  down  the  big  ice- 
fall,  and  exhausted  at  its  foot,  been  forced  to  camp  on 
their  loads,  tentless,  and  with  no  fire  except  the  spirit 
lamp  to  brew  tea. 

"  Trapped  in  this  valley,  eh? "  said  the  old  man, 
genially  as  he  could,  after  he  had  curbed  the  appalling 
qualm  regarding  any  return  that  Gail  aroused.  "  What 
was  it  Perry  says  to  you  this  morning?  " 

"  Just    as    always,    *  You're   the   doctor,'    and    with 

that  same  grin."     Gail  spoke  with  uncomplaining  scorn. 

4*3 


424»       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  Nags  us  into  taking  his  route,  and  then  puts  it  up 
to  me  when  we're  ditched." 

w  Well,  oughtn't  you  to  know  our  course,  from  the 
trip  you  claim  to  have  took  in  here,  when  you  staked 
your  ground?  "  Pete  charged.  "  Though  that  was  in 
summer,  when  the  country  must  'a'  looked  all  different," 
he  added  assuagingly. 

Gail  grunted,  at  the  man's  usual,  straddling  loy- 
alty, between  the  nominal  and  jealous  leadership  of 
Eleven  —  to  whom,  as  he  said,  he  was  so  "  obligated  " 
—  and  Gail's  underlying  control  of  the  party. 

For  a  time  their  narrow,  webbed  snow-shoes  crunched 
on  in  silence;  weary,  aching  legs  staggered  loose-joint- 
edly,  and  not  wholly  from  the  last  two  days'  struggle, 
as  they  deceived  themselves  to  think.  The  sun  was  but 
the  pale  core  of  a  vague  globe  of  light.  Drifting 
flakes  seemed  to  slide  it  forward  with  them,  and  though 
hardly  after  noon,  it  had  not  topped  the  Tordrillon 
Range,  which  they  had  just  crossed.  With  the  slant, 
wan  gold  of  sunset,  it  now  peered  over  some  serene  and 
rosy  crest,  now  slipped  behind  a  jagged  and  retreat- 
ing spire,  shrouding  them  in  darkness.  Gloomy  spruces 
closed  around.  Scattered,  slim,  like  hosts  of  sentinels, 
the  short  and  evenly  tapering  branches  bore  great  gobs 
of  whiteness,  grotesque  caps,  pendant  sculptures. 
These,  the  deep  softness  underfoot,  the  fine,  aimless  drift 
from  the  open  sky,  muffled  and  at  the  same  time  accented 
the  bells  of  the  six  teams.  It  was  as  if  one  had  cotton 
in  his  ears,  or  moved  forever  through  some  cramped 
and  padded  room,  which  yet  was  the  northern  vast. 

"  A  week  or  so  more  won't  matter  now,  making  it  out 
of  here,"  observed  Scannon  at  length. 

"  It's  the  days  we'll  be  counting  soon.  Eleven  won't 
be  able  to  bluff  me  then,"  asserted  Gail.  «  We'll  have 


THE   HAPPY   VALLEY 

to  loop  the  Terra-cotta  Peaks,  and  hit  down  a  stream 
that  meets  the  Tsana,"  he  hesitated  and  his  voice  fell, 
"  near  a  canyon  where  I  upset  once.  But  we  can 
make  it  —  you  and  I  and  the  women,  anyhow." 

"  Thank  God  they're  not  onto  how  bad  we  may  be  in," 
said  Pete  with  his  simple  cheer.  "  Perry's  been  the 
trump  at  boosting  their  spirits,  and  keeping  dark  about 
what  grub's  left." 

"  One  of  them  is  wise.  His  woman  Arlene.  Be- 
cause I've  told  her,"  said  Gail.  "  But  Eleven  don't 
know  even  about  the  horse-feed.  That's  what  I've  got 
to  have  out  with  him." 

"Yes  —  her,"  conceded  Scannon,  unmindful  of  the 
threat.  "  But  she's  just  like  us." 

Forward  through  the  powdery  haze  they  could  dis- 
cern Lena's  large  active  figure  in  her  red  flannel  parka. 
She  was  at  the  man's  work  of  breaking  trail,  that  prime 
ordeal  and  test  of  one's  fitness  to  survive  in  the  North; 
at  which  persistence  in  taking  your  turn  becomes  the 
measure  of  life,  and  in  disaster  the  basis  of  judgment 
for  succour  and  sacrifice.  There  sturdy,  robust,  she 
pressed  down  the  yielding,  unbroken  blanket,  lifting 
pounds  at  each  step  of  her  distended  legs.  Every  day 
with  leaden  hips,  her  full  angular  features  set,  she  had 
done  so  turn  about  with  Gail  and  Scannon,  but  never 
Eleven.  He  would  plunge  forward  only  to  initiate  a 
change  of  course,  or  in  the  early,  desolate  dark  of  a 
grueling  day  begin  to  break  fast  and  feverishly,  in  his 
conserved  strength,  until  ready  to  collapse. 

For  a  month  Clara  had  "  broken,"  more  eagerly  and 
swiftly  than  anyone.  She  had  dropped  out  after  a  spell 
of  giddiness  in  Nushak  Pass.  Recovering,  she  had  not 
resumed  the  work.  Eleven  had  forbidden  it,  in  the  early 
flush  of  his  inevitable  attraction  to  her.  That  she  had 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

obeyed  him  surprised,  more  than  annoyed,  Gail.  He 
knew  that  her  steadfastness  and  trust  in  him  still  was 
unswerving.  But  lately  she  had  become  self-concen- 
trated and  contained,  silent  and  oblivious  to  rebuffs  and 
progress  alike. 

Gail  was  astounded ;  the  change  was  portentous.  Her 
buoyant  stability  seemed  to  be  failing,  her  cheer  and 
levity  to  have  lapsed.  He  had  been  prepared  for  Lena's 
rugged  endurance,  but  that  Clara  should  weaken  —  she 
who  had  been  so  anxious  to  plunge  haplessly  into  the 
wild,  whose  supple,  steely  strength,  whose  nerve  and 
spirit  in  breasting  any  menace,  was  the  heart  of  all  his 
flagging  hopes! 

He  would  be  haunted  by  her  collapse  in  the  scow  on 
the  Tsana,  her  daze  and  preoccupation  in  the  cave. 

It  was  all  inexplicable. 


Gail  strode  ahead  to  Arlene,  and  took  his  turn  in  the 
lead.  Under  her  blue  toque,  her  square  face  was  un- 
wontedly  flushed,  her  narrow  eyes  wide-parted. 

"Where  are  we?"  she  asked. 

"  Happy  Valley,"  he  answered  laconically,  "  I  told 
him  so,"  and  heard  the  quick  breath  she  drew. 

Gail  believed  that  he  had  ordered  his  relations  with 
Lena  rightly.  He  avoided  arousing  any  morbid  mo- 
roseness  in  her  by  questions  upon  their  legal  standing. 
What  mattered  that  upon  the  trail?  It  had  not  seemed 
to  stir  Clara's  curiosity.  In  her  present  state  a  revela- 
tion might  be  disastrous.  And  his  one  bond  with  Ar- 
lene was  the  frank  comradeship  of  the  open,  such  as  he 
had  had  with  his  partners  on  the  Yukon,  feminine 
though  she  had  become.  And  what  women  but  these 
two  could  have  so  withstood  this  march! 


THE    HAPPY    VALLEY  427 

"  Good  name,  eh  ?  — *  Happy,'  "  she  repeated  grimly. 
"  The  wrong  pass  and  the  wrong  valley.  Oh,  I  un- 
derstand about  you  and  Perry." 

He  caught  her  reading  of  how,  tired  of  Eleven's  dis- 
cussions and  assumed  infallibility,  Gail,  avowedly  un- 
certain of  the  land's  lay  under  snow,  had  given  in  to 
turn  east  too  soon  over  the  Tordrillon  Mountains. 

"  The  wear  of  this  trip  has  undermined  us  more  than 
we  show  or'd  like  to  admit,"  she  went  on,  with  the  very 
thought  then  disturbing  him.  "  Is  Perry  behind 
us?" 

"  Still  in  the  rear.     With  Clara,  I  guess." 

"Then  the  dog-team's  hitched.  And  they're  both 
riding,"  she  said,  adding  with  her  native  certainty  in 
forecast,  "  That  gives  working  fare  to  dogs  tonight. 
And  their  salmon  means  life  and  death  to  us  now. 
But  I  expected  him  dashing  ahead  here  this  noon,  to  set 
us  an  example  on  his  shoes." 

"  I'm  giving  him  his  chance,"  said  Gail,  "  tonight." 

They  mushed  on.  From  behind  came  fitfully  the 
leaden  gurgle  of  the  horses'  cow-bells.  They  had  not 
the  crisp  tinkling  cheer  like  those  of  sleighs.  They 
bleated,  weak  and  mournful.  Gail  heard  them  in  his 
dreams  at  night. 

But  at  that  moment  he  did  not  regret  Eleven's 
blunder.  It  spurred  Gail  to  regain  his  old  grip  on  the 
life  of  the  trail,  the  hard,  inexorable  decisiveness  of  ac- 
tion in  the  wilderness.  Quick  and  clever  at  reading  its 
ways,  Eleven  was  arrogant,  domineering,  in  following 
them.  He  belittled  the  strain  of  the  march  as  if  to  de- 
fend his  shirking  from  harness  and  axe,  and  imply  that 
as  the  outfit's  brains  and  money,  his  strength  should  be 
preserved.  He  boasted  of  "  following  the  line  of  least 
resistance."  He  had  profusely,  then  grudgingly,  and 


428       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

in  the  end  only  jocosely,  recognised  Gail's  actual  leader- 
ship. 

His  humour  around  the  camp  stove  at  night,  chiefly 
at  the  expense  of  others,  much  concerned  the  business 
ventures  of  his  father,  a  Bakersfield  oil-promoter, 
whose  handy  man  in  their  'Frisco  brokerage  office  Pete 
was  — "  Dead-0  "  Scannon,  as  he  was  known  in  the 
Sierras.  They  rallied  one  another  upon  their  stock- 
booming  schemes.  Pete  sarcastically  accused  Perry  of 
generosity  toward  investors,  of  being  a  "  socialist " — 
an  affectation  picked  up  at  Leland  Stanford.  Perry 
swore  that  the  blue  powder-marks  that  pocked  Dead-0's 
red  face  (got  in  a  grizzly  hunt,  so  he  said)  came  from 
setting  off  fire-works  at  a  hot-springs  hotel  to  celebrate 
the  acquittal  of  a  Los  Angeles  grafter  who  had  fled 
there. 

But  now  in  mid-November  these  sessions  were  long 
past.  Remote  and  flavourless,  they  smacked  of  the 
Seward  and  Lamar.  Gail  saw  that  only  his  dependence 
on  Eleven's  capital,  and  a  lack  of  seriousness  in  the 
pair's  attitude,  had  kept  him  from  disgust.  They  might 
even  have  broken  the  law ;  but  Gail  had  divined  in  Eleven 
a  dormant,  honest  instinct,  attested  in  his  high  but 
hearty  laugh. 

They  had  their  athletics  in  common,  for  Eleven  had 
been  a  hurdler  at  college;  and  besides  Gail's  slant  for 
chemistry  was  his  knowledge  of  geology.  His  fleet 
imagination  had  grasped  its  essential  time-mystery  dur- 
ing wandering  school  days  along  King's  River.  But 
as  with  Snowden,  the  North  denied  any  mention  of  such 
ties.  Alone  together,  Eleven  would  worry  about  his 
health,  complain  of  having  put  on  flesh,  and  of  a  lack 
of  "  fibrene  "  in  the  beans  and  sour-dough  bread.  He 
scoffed  at  the  idealism  of  his  class-mate,  Merril,  but, 


THE    HAPPY    VALLEY 

tongue  in  cheek,  confessed  being  a  socialist,  since  he 
wanted  "  all  I  can  get  out  of  this  damned  country." 
Yet  something  alert  and  human  in  him,  infectious  and 
irresponsible,  belied  any  designed  insincerity.  He  pro- 
tested too  much  a  disrespect  for  woman,  and  any  deeper 
ends  in  life ;  in  some  equivocal,  secretive  way,  he  seemed 
to  pride  himself  on  treasuring  a  void  within  his  heart. 

Without  the  magic  of  Trueblood's  birth  in  the  land, 
he  gained  Gail's  confidence  less  even  than  Dick  had. 
Gail  hinted  once  of  his  own  ideas  on  the  self's  survival, 
through  destruction  and  vitality;  at  which  Eleven  had 
sneered,  "  Rot !  Sounds  well,  but  she  never  works  out," 
and  named  some  German  high-brow  whom  Gail  had 
never  heard  of.  But  above  all,  Eleven  would  have  sud- 
den shifts  from  a  stubborn,  intolerant  conceit,  a  flam- 
ing enthusiasm  and  hopefulness,  to  depths  of  self-accu- 
sation, despair  and  foreboding  toward  their  venture, 
which  the  stress  of  travel  had  all  ineffably  increased. 

At  times  Gail  felt  terribly  alone  with  these  chechakos. 
He  itched  for  a  companionship  like  Hartline's,  bred  and 
based  in  dependence  upon  the  Youngest  World.  And 
at  Eleven's  worst  —  in  his  occasional  outbreaks  — 
Gail  could  summon  in  retrospect  a  greater  sympathy  for 
Blackwood,  Sydney,  or  Lamar,  than  for  either  of  these 
two  new-comers.  .  .  . 

He  looked  up.  The  spruces  cast  tenuous,  bluish 
shadows  on  the  pallid  snow.  The  flakes  lagged  straight 
down.  The  moon  hung  in  the  zenith,  half  a  silvery 
wafer,  parting  the  felty  edges  of  sapphire  cloud.  From 
some  great  distance  a  barred  owl  hooted. 

m 

"This  warmth  can't  last,"  said  Gail  to  Lena. 
They  had  come  to  an  open,  edged  by  a  few  naked,  rusty 


430       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

spruces,  burned  in  some  Indian  fire.  "  There's  dry 
wood.  It's  camp." 

The  sleds  jangled  up.  Pete  with  the  axe  set  off  to 
the  timber,  while  Lena  unharnessed  with  Gail,  unloaded 
the  tents,  grub-box,  dunnage,  bedding,  hay  and  oats. 
By  the  time  he  had  trodden  the  snow,  pitched  the  horse 
and  dog  shelter,  apportioned  their  feed,  Lena  had  raised 
the  living  tent,  fitted  the  stove-pipe  and  was  lighting 
a  fire  under  the  frozen  beans  and  bread ;  but  neither 
Eleven  nor  Clara  had  appeared.  As  Pete  grunted  out- 
side with  each  blow  of  his  axe  in  the  wood  knotted  like 
iron,  Gail  unfolded  the  table,  set  the  boxes  for  seats, 
spread  the  five  sleeping  bags  on  the  big  tarpaulin.  Not 
until  the  tea  was  ready  did  they  hear  the  creak  of  run- 
ners outside,  low  voices  and  the  whimper  of  dogs. 

"  He's  having  the  guts  to  bed  them  himself,"  said 
Lena  of  Perry,  sliding  a  steaming  platter  on  the  table, 
where  Gail  and  Pete  had  sat  down. 

The  tent  flap  parted.  Through  the  cloud  of  steam 
made  by  the  cold,  bowled  in  the  fluffy,  blue-grey  lead- 
dog,  Klika.  She  was  a  bitch,  and  sniffed  up  wolfishly 
at  the  table.  Swinging  her  great  curled  tail,  she  ca- 
reered about,  slobbering  hands  and  legs,  and  finally  re- 
treated to  Clara's  bed.  Clara  entered,  her  keen,  potent 
face  pinched  and  blotched  with  purple,  against  the  white 
parka  and  hood  that  she  had  made  of  the  ermine  com- 
forter at  Chigmit.  Without  shedding  them,  and  with 
set  eyes  that  avoided  Gail  in  particular,  she  threw  her- 
self on  her  bunk  with  a  sigh.  Klika  crept  close  and 
licked  her  brow.  She  began  to  whisper  and  croon  to 
the  dog,  as  the  others  ate  on  in  a  silence  that  deepened 
suddenly. 

They  heard  Eleven  whistling  cheerily  outside;  then 
in  some  querulous  complaint  to  himself.  He  slipped 


THE    HAPPY   VALLEY  431 

through  the  canvas,  in  his  black  lamb  cap,  embroidered 
moccasins,  and  duck-down  coat,  which  all  gave  him  a 
festive  air. 

"Bright    as  daylight    out    there,"    he    announced 
briskly.     "  Thought  we  might  have  traveled  late  with 
this  moon.     Celebrating  how  we're  across  that  damned 
divide." 

"You  know?"  asked  Lena,  casually,  seeing  Gail's 
face  darken  for  a  more  telling  reply,  "  how  this  is  the 
valley  we've  fought  shy  of  all  along?  " 

In  the  pause,  Gail  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  plate,  awaiting 
the  man's  tirade.  But  it  did  not  come.  Eleven  doffed 
his  duck-skins,  perched  himself  on  the  seat  opposite 
Gail,  and  heaped  his  plate  with  beans. 

"  Anyhow,  we're  over  the  range.  And  it's  the  right 
direction  at  last,"  he  declared,  unmoved  in  his  self-confi- 
dent optimism.  "  You  ought  to  thank  me  for  that,  after 
a  11  this  j  ockeying  with  the  compass  for  the  last  month.9' 

He  spoke  at  Gail,  who  coolly  met  his  gaze  and  helped 
himself  to  milk. 

"  I  suppose  there's  a  way  of  *  getting  round,'  as 
usual,"  said  Lena  at  the  stove,  bitterly  using  his  cus- 
tomary, cock-sure  phrase  for  avoiding  every  difficulty. 
No  one  bothered  to  tell  about  the  Terra-cotta  Range, 
and  the  tributary  that  entered  the  Tsana  far  below  the 
eldorado. 

"  Look  here,"  exclaimed  Eleven  suddenly,  as  if  filled 
with  a  breathless  revelation.  "  I've  been  counting  our 
hay  bales.  We've  only  got  five  left !  " 

Lena  shot  Gail  an  appealing  glance,  and  even  Pete 
drained  his  tin  cup  disgustedly.  Only  five  bales!  As 
if  the  three  of  them  had  not  been  long  living,  dreaming, 
in  dread  of  that  slowly  vanishing  feed.  And  Eleven, 
who  called  himself  their  "  head,"  had  just  discovered 


THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

it!  But  they  not  even  betrayed  impatience:  they  had 
learned  the  folly  of  stirring  him  by  contempt.  He 
gazed  about  in  challenge  for  some  comment,  swamping 
his  cup  with  sugar. 

"  So  we  got  to  be  facing  the  time,"  drawled  Gail, 
"  when  we  get  rid  of  our  horses." 

"That's  it!"  echoed  Eleven.  "What  we  counted 
on.  And  use  the'  dogs.  Sooner  the  better,  I  say. 
They're  in  great  trim,  went  fine  today.  What  have 
we  got  all  that  dried  salmon  for?  " 

"  Then  get  your  gun  ready,"  threw  in  Gail. 

"  Gun?  Not  on  your  life!  You  don't  catch  me  let- 
ting dumb  beasts  be  shot  in  cold  blood  up  in  this  coun- 
try—  poor  creatures  that  we  owe  our  lives  to."  His 
voice  softened.  "  Old  buck,  and  baldy,  the  two  greys, 
and  that  rascally  brown  mare.  They're  as  much  hu- 
man partners  as  any  of  us." 

His  greenish  eyes  gleamed  restlessly.  The  flash  of 
sentiment  was  for  once  sincere. 

"  Going  to  let  them  starve,  then?  "  Gail  asked,  dryly, 
"  are  you  ?  " 

"  They  can  rustle  grass  through  the  snow  till  spring, 
the  same  as  on  our  western  ranges,"  Bleven  retorted. 
"  You  only  want  to  kill  them  because  it's  the  custom 
of  this  country.  Gods !  Give  the  poor,  suffering 
brutes  their  chance  for  life." 

Dead-O  took  a  brisk,  adjudicating  bite  on  his  tobacco 
plug. 

"  Yes,  the  other  side  of  the  range  they  might  rustle 
and  live,"  reasoned  Gail  with  a  slow  seriousness.  "  But 
not  here,  exposed  to  these  Pacific  snows.  They  come 
too  deep.  Horses  'ud  stand  no  chance  getting  through 
them  away  from  wolves  and  wolverine.  That's  why 
there's  no  game  in  these  valleys,  and  we're  in  so  bad 


THE    HAPPY   VALLEY  433 

for  crossing  over."  He  paused,  knotting  his  up-slop- 
ing eyebrows.  "  It's  a  question  of  fact,  Eleven,  of  our 
seeing  and  feeling  ahead.  But  I  suppose  that  to  watch 
them  drop  clean  from  bullets,  once  and  for  all,  is  more 
harrowing  to  a  man  like  you,  than  to  know  when  we're 
miles  away  how  the  poor  beasts  must  be  helplessly  fight- 
ing, stalled  to  their  ears  in  these  drifts,  with  a  pack 
of  wolves  at  their  throats  — "  the  words  throbbed  with 
mockery,  in  his  deeper  feeling  and  the  fulness  of  his 
conviction  in  the  law  of  the  trail,  "  than  to  see  their 
struggles  and  blood,  hear  their  pitiful  cries  in  your 
sleep." 

"  Hell ! "  broke  out  Eleven,  and  hid  a  scarlet  face 
in  his  cup.  Gail  cut  furiously  across  the  piece  of  bacon 
on  his  plate,  as  Lena  stifled  an  exclamation.  Only 
Clara,  sipping  her  tea  and  caressing  the  bluish  bitch  in 
a  corner,  sat  numb  to  Gail's  grewsome  images. 

"  Prospectors  say  a  man's  hoodooed,  I've  heard," 
said  Pete,  rising  to  chuck  a  log  in  the  stove,  "  to  turn 
horses  loose  here  in  the  winter." 

"  As  if  we  weren't  that  already,"  muttered  Eleven, 
lapsing  into  the  gloom  of  his  rare  surrenders  to  any 
issue.  "  Oh,  have  your  own  way.  Why  not  chuck 
the  hay  away,  and  plunk  them  tomorrow?  "  he  sneered, 
hesitating,  "  You're  the  sort  of  man  that  wouldn't 
hold  off  from  eating  human  flesh,  if  it  came  to  the  rub." 

"  No,  I  wouldn't,"  Gail  blurted,  aroused.  "  If  the 
body'd  died  naturally.  And  I'd  make  others  with  me 
eat  it,  too.  The  dead  is  dead.  The  first  thing  a  man 
owes  to  himself  and  life  —  is  life,"  he  broke  off  with 
flashing  eyes. 

Eleven  cast  him  a  narrow  look  of  loathing.  Pete 
checked  a  wild  laugh.  Gail's  forced  bravado  toward 
so  universal  an  abhorrence  had  lashed  even  Lena  into  a 


434       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

wincing  silence,  and  he  saw  how  he  had  outraged  the 
thin  bond  of  self-control  and  mutual  cheer  that  alone 
walled  them  all  from  tragedy. 

"  I'm  sorry,  but  I  meant  it,"  said  Gail,  calming 
himself,  overwhelmed  with  shame.  He  searched  their 
faces  for  resentment,  but  seeing  none,  continued, 
"  And  your  still  standing  for  me  gives  me  the  courage 
to  say  what  I've  been  screwing  myself  up  to  all  day." 
He  threw  back  his  head.  "  It's  this :  If  we  keep  on,  as 
we  must,  making  our  regular  caches  for  the  return,  then 
we've  got  to  start  in  on  half  rations  tomorrow,  our- 
selves." 

Eleven  started,  glared  at  him,  and  in  the  dead  silence 
once  more  dipped  three  spoonfuls  from  the  sugar  sack 
for  his  tea. 

"  That's  why,  for  one  thing,"  went  on  Gail,  pointing 
to  him,  but  sure  of  his  support  in  the  sugar  question 
from  the  three  others.  "  Eleven,  you're  what  they  call 
a  '  sugar-hog '  on  the  trail.  It's  natural  enough  here, 
though  like  a  disease  with  some,  I  know.  But  our 
sugar's  more  than  half  gone.  And  we're  leaving  all  the 
rest  of  it  here,  I'm  telling  you." 

"  Not  on  your  life !  "  he  cried,  leaping  to  his  feet 
with  smooth  cheeks  paling,  hardened  eyes  darting  un- 
certainly from  one  to  another.  "  I  won't  be  cheated 
out  of  my  nourishment.  We  don't  get  enough  calories 
from  the  grub  now,  and  I'm  almost  a  skeleton.  You 
think  I'm  going  to  eat  only  what  you  give  out  ?  " 

Pete  shrank  from  him,  and  Clara  shuddered.  Their 
gaze,  veering  dependently  to  Gail,  thrilled  him  with  a 
quiet  confidence. 

"  You  can  eat  or  not,  but  it  will  be  no  more  than 
what  I  give  you,"  Gail  said,  leaning  forward  and  steadily 
eyeing  Perry.  "  And  anyone  seen  with  what's  not  in 


THE    HAPPY   VALLEY  435 

his  ration  —  gets  this !  "  He  rested  a  hand  on  the  au- 
tomatic revolver  in  his  belt. 

"  Damn  you ! "  shouted  Eleven,  fiercely,  grinding  his 
teeth. 

He  stood  there,  staring,  rigid  and  braced,  in  the 
humid  atmosphere  of  the  tent,  with  its  odour  of  boiled 
beans  and  the  Siwash-like  smell  of  unwashed  clothing 

—  the  shock  of  black  hair  mussed  over  his  high,  clean 
forehead  —  his  thin,  short  lips  drawn  tight,  the  dim- 
ples scars.     Then  gradually  he  began  to  tremble,  and 
the  large  vein  in  his  forehead  swelled  and  throbbed  as 
though  it  would  burst. 

And  it  was  Clara  who  broke  the  piteous  stillness,  by 
dropping  her  cup  with  a  clatter ;  but  Pete  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"  That's  enough  of  him  for  me,"  he  breathed  out, 
relaxing,  "  no  matter  what  I  owe  him.  Thain,  I'm  with 
you  from  now  on,"  he  took  the  final  leap  from  his  tot- 
tering allegiance.  "  A  man  that'll  throw  away  his 
horses'  grub,  want  them  tortured  —  and  then  kick  about 
his  stomach." 

"  Dead-O !  "  beseeched  Eleven  in  trepidation. 

"He's  only  not  himself,"  said  Gail.  "We're  not 
either,  all  of  us." 

"  Boys,  it's  only  that  I'm  afraid  —  for  your  sakes 

—  of  myself,"  Eleven  declared  huskily,  with  a  breaking 
voice,  and  sank  into  his  seat  with  bowed  head. 

The  silence  seemed  to  have  stretched  into  an  eternity 
before  the  two  women  gathered  their  senses.  Lena's 
lip  began  to  curl,  over  the  steaming  kettle  of  dog-rice 
that  she  was  cooking.  But  Clara  appeared  to  be  most 
aroused  by  this  climax.  She  threw  Klika  from  her  lap, 
took  off  her  wet  socks,  and  plunging  an  arm  into  her 
dunnage  bag,  drew  out  a  dry  pair  and  put  them  on. 


436      THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

Then,  shrewdly  eyeing  Perry  askance,  she  picked  up 
the  first  pair  and  threw  them  over  the  rope  on  which 
garments  were  drying  that  Pete  had  stretched  above  the 
stove.  She  stepped  into  her  moccasins,  took  the  rice- 
pot  from  the  stove,  and  disappeared  with  it  through 
the  tent  flap,  followed  by  her  bitch,  to  feed  the 
dogs. 

Gail  stared  after  her.  Was-  this  an  awakening  from 
her  long  daze,  a  dawning  of  her  resilient  resource,  under 
the  shocks  of  the  scene? 

But  the  others  appeared  oblivious  of  her  move,  as 
they  had  always  been  of  her  uncanny  demoralisation. 

Pete  filled  the  dish-pan  with  clean  snow  from  under 
the  tent  wall,  and  placed  it  on  the  stove.  Arlene  col- 
lected the  dishes,  and  when  the  water  was  hot  began  to 
wash  and  wipe  them.  Clara  stole  in  as  she  finished. 
Pete  sought  his  sleeping-bag,  taking  off  only  his  moc- 
casins ;  the  women  did  likewise,  but  also  shaking  down 
their  hair.  Eleven  had  not  lifted  his  head  from  the 
table ;  and  only  when  Gail  doused  the  lantern  and  turned 
in,  did  he  get  up  and  follow  softly  to  bed. 

It  was  growing  colder.  The  rising  wind,  pouring  in 
from  all  sides  upon  them,  like  a  river  released  from  far 
away,  bent  and  tore  the  surrounding  spruces.  Now 
and  then  snow  tossed  from  them  sifted  like  steel  dust 
on  the  canvas  roof;  and  Gail,  lying  sleepless,  watched 
an  icicle  slowly  eat  down  from  the  stove-hole,  parallel 
with  the  pipe  and  the  box  of  fermenting  sour  dough 
that  hung  close  to  it  for  warmth. 

Suddenly  a  low  whistle  rose  from  Clara's  sleeping- 
bag.  "Here  Klika,  Klika,  Klika,"  she  called  in  a 
sleepy,  wailing  voice,  "  give  the  mothers  a  sliver  of 
salmon.  .  .  ." 

Gail  started,  muttering  her  name.     And  an  answer 


THE    HAPPY   VALLEY  487 

came,  as  if  she  had  first  spoken  in  her  sleep,  but  now 
lay  fully  conscious: 

"  So  we're  gone  wrong  and  may  starve,  eh?  I've 
been  blind.  Tonight's  shown  me  a  lot,  thank  heaven! 
Gail,  don't  ask  what's  been  ailing  me.  I  can't  —  can't 
tell  you.  Only  keep  the  faith,  believe  in  me  as  I  have 
in  you.  And  there's  nothing  between  me  and  Eleven. 
I  can  take  care  of  myself,  better  now  than  ever." 

"  Sh !  You'll  wake  him,"  whispered  Gail,  beside  him- 
self with  mingled  joy  and  apprehension.  "  He's  after 
—  mad  for  —  you.  Who  wouldn't  be?  And  you're 
leading  him  on." 

"  No !  I'm  only  trying  to  make  a  man  of  him. 
Bring  him  and  Lena  together,  to  begin  life  again  in 
our  world,  like  we  have.  That  can't  harm  us,  it's  the 
sympathy  we've  vaunted.  Only  bear  with  me."  Her 
voice  died  drowsily.  "  More  than  ever  I  love  you  now." 

His  heart  filled  and  bounded  at  the  sacred  word. 
For  the  instant  Clara  was  herself  again,  as  in  their 
first  months  at  Chigmit.  ... 

Gail  heard  her  steady  breathing  chime  in  with  the 
stertorous  tremour  from  their  partners,  none  of  whom 
had  been  aroused. 

He  sank  back.     His  cup  was  full  tonight ! 

IV 

Ghostly  moonlight  out  of  scudding  clouds  alternately 
bathed  and  darkened  the  tent  walls,  with  pulsing  shifts 
as  of  bright  hope  and  black  despair.  From  the  horse 
tent  he  heard  the  revolving  munch  of  jaws,  whines  of 
the  dream-weary  wolf-dogs. 

But  Gail  lay  wakeful,  triumphant,  full  at  last  on  his 
mettle,  through  Clara's  avowal,  and  this  mastery  of 
Eleven.  He  had  re-won  his  grasp  upon  the  life  of  the 


438       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

wilderness.  Though  they  were  on  the  wrong  course  — 
five  living  atoms  gulfed  in  a  life-mocking  vast  —  they 
would  make  the  trip,  all  of  them. 

His  mind  ran  backward.  The  goad  of  travel  had 
effaced  all  show  of  affection  between  any  of  them, 
cooled  even  their  hot  dreams  of  gold.  A  helpful  solici- 
tude at  performing  camp  tasks  in  common  had  followed 
the  exuberance  of  starting  from  Chigmit.  This  subsid- 
ing, there  had  come  to  the  fore  repellent  traits,  small 
perversities,  which  each  had  controlled  after  an  explo- 
sion or  two  —  toward  one  for  shirking,  another  for 
wasting  milk  or  bacon-rind ;  until  they  had  traveled  re- 
pressed and  self-dependent,  awed  by  the  grimness  of 
their  quest,  the  best  and  worst  in  all  hidden,  well  in 
hand.  What  fellowship  grew  sprang  from  such  cover, 
and  so  far  had  revealed  itself  only  individually,  fur- 
tively, in  a  quiet  tolerance,  in  dumb  respect  and  admira- 
tion for  small  self-denials. 

But  the  future.  Did  not  their  several  passions  still 
lie  latent,  smouldering  the  more  vigorously  for  this  con- 
cealment —  whether  sordid  and  bodily,  for  riches,  or 
his  own  creative  lust?  Would  they  not  be  intensified, 
gather  power  like  a  dammed  torrent,  in  the  grind  of 
the  trail;  to  be  unleashed  by  its  ever-galling  of  ego 
upon  ego,  so  that  fists  might  answer  a  trivial  word,  the 
honest  lie,  the  strong  cave  in,  the  brave  be  cowards? 
Yes !  But  as  often  then  whoever  nagged  would  forbear, 
the  selfish  immolate  themselves.  All  thirsts,  the  petty 
and  transcendent  alike,  would  draw  into  the  same  focus. 
To  judge  each  justly  was  the  task  —  the  charge  of  his 
manhood  and  proof  of  leadership  —  in  curbing  any 
quarrel,  whether  it  involved  his  own  perpetuity  and  a 
woman's  honour,  or  only  the  madness  of  fatigue  and 
hunger.  And  though  he  himself  might  rave,  beset  by 


THE    HAPPY    VALLEY 

either  crisis  (death  always  lurked  on  the  shoulder  here, 
starvation  in  the  throat),  Gail  felt  that  the  destiny  of 
these  beings  in  the  tent  rested  in  his  hands,  and  he 
thrilled  to  the  responsibility. 

In  his  hands-;  but  tonight  his  larger  faith  lay  in  the 
North  —  in  the  Youngest  World,  and  in  omnipotent 
Nature,  guiding  ever  to  the  good.  She  had  baffled  him 
before,  but  had  not  she  then  been  but  making  his  trial? 
And  never,  except  in  defeat,  had  he  been  driven  to  glo- 
rify the  Self.  At  moments  of  victory  he  had  responded 
to  man,  to  the  multitude,  or  woman.  And  was  that  not 
a  proof  of  Bob  Snowden's  creed  to  be  selfish  when  you 
must,  kindly  when  you  can?  Thus  he  had  been  by 
turns  valorous  and  acquiescent,  which  had  so  stirred 
Trueblood.  (Dick  as  by  instinct  dimly  saw  this  truth 
and  key  to  life,  by  which  all  men  must  gain  their  guer- 
dons.. Would  that  some  day  he  might  win  his,  in  this 
wisdom  of  charity  and  hardness !) 

Gail's  thoughts  ran  on.  How  the  realities  of  living 
cheated  hopes  and  fears  alike!  But  Nature  and  the 
vast  cleared  the  brain,  gave  wings  to  aspiration,  though 
in  the  face  of  suffering  and  impending  death.  How  the 
relentless  trail  confuted  issues  which  before  starting 
had  seemed  must  be  vital,  and  thrust  forward  the  un- 
foreseen. For  example:  Eleven's  sly,  stubborn  bully- 
ing had  obscured  in  Gail  his  aim  to  regenerate  Arlene. 
Meanwhile  that  problem  had  solved  itself,  through  the 
land's  potency.  Lena  was  the  ideal  trail-mate,  staunch 
and  restrained,  showing  none  of  her  darker  qualities, 
the  woman  for  the  land  —  impersonal  Nature  incarnate, 
perhaps.  Not  once  had  she  been  abject  or  partisan 
to  Eleven,  coloured  by  his  intolerances,  complaining  or 
discontented.  And  though  in  the  past  she  had  never 
been  pliable  to  Gail,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  gained 


440      THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

now  the  force  to  rule  her,  he  hesitated  to  do  so.  For 
long  the  thought,  dead  though  it  was  tonight,  had 
haunted  him,  aroused  by  Clara's  vagaries:  Himself 
and  Arlene  together  in  the  end,  where  they  had  started 
two  years  ago,  wrecked  by  existence. 

Never !  That  could  not  be  the  North's  solution,  the 
reward  of  the  Youngest  World,  their  verdict,  in  the 
wisdom  that  inscrutable  Nature  had  given  him,  for  so 
doggedly  clinging  to  his  dreams.  .  .  .  Poor  Lena! 
Whatever  her  regeneration,  she  nurtured  no  spark  of 
unending  life ;  she  really  was  at  war  with  Nature,  whose 
ends  —  as  the  final  arbiter  of  life  and  death,  above 
"  right  "  and  "  wrong  " —  so  distant  and  brooding,  yet 
were  ever  logical  and  just. 

Life  as  Nature  proclaimed  it  —  naked  and  inde- 
structible —  was  the  all  in  all  Gail  yearned  for.  That 
was  his  greater,  final  goal,  summed  by  all  his  thirst's  and 
Clara's ;  by  Love,  whether  veiled  in  her  indomitable  pas- 
sion, or  the  flower  of  his  creative  instinct.  It  was  Life, 
the  magic  of  the  spheres.  .  .  . 

He  lay  calm  and  wakeful,  into  the  icy  glow  of  dawn. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  BLUE  BITCH 


THEY  did  not  kill  their  horses  the  next  day.  After  a 
dumb  breakfast,  as  Gail  was  hitching  up  while  Lena  and 
Pete  loaded  the  sleds,  Eleven,  subdued  and  haggard, 
came  to  them  and  sat  on  the  folded  tents. 

"  All  right  then  about  your  half  rations,"  he  said. 
"  But  how  long  d'you  think  these  bales'll  last?  " 

Condescension  coloured  his  submissiveness,  and  a  note 
of  truculence  his  hint  about  the  animals. 

"  Till  we  hit  the  stream  in  this  valley,  where  it's  quiet 
enough  to  freeze,"  replied  Gail,  ducking  for  a  trace. 
"  That  ought  to  be  in  a  week  or  less.  Likely  the  ice'll 
be  swept  clear  of  snow,  and  we  can  make  fast  time  with 
the  dogs.  But  it's  all  a  guess  how  far  the  Tsana  is  on 
this  course  of  yours." 

Dead-0  spat  confirmingly,  and  it  was  decided  to  shoot 
the  *  cayuses  when  the  outfit  could  travel  through  the 
Terra-cottas  on  the  tributary. 

"  So  riding  behind  the  dogs,  now  — "  began  Lena, 
with  an  invoking  look  at  Gail. 

"  No  more  of  that,  on  your  life !  "  spoke  up  Pete, 
fixing  his  eyes  on  Clara.  Relapsed  again  into  her  daze, 
she  stood  among  her  lithe,  erect-eared  pets,  gnawing  a 
sliver  of  raw  bacon  as  she  gazed  into  the  pale  violet 
sky,  stilled  by  the  sudden  cold  and  yet  ungilded  by  the 
sun. 

Eleven  swung  his  back  upon  them ;  rose,  and  walking 
441 


THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

to  the  drift  in  which  they  had  stuck  their  snowshoes 
upright,  fuddled  with  his  thongs.  Gail  and  Scannon, 
to  make  the  cache  for  the  return,  lopped  the  limbs  from 
a  spruce ;  hung  beans,  flour,  bacon,  the  rest  of  the  sugar 
in  its  top.  Then,  twisting  on  their  webbed  shoes,  they 
resumed  the  march  in  the  order  of  the  day  before. 
Instantly  each  breathed  a  white  rime  upon  the  fur  col- 
lar of  his  parka.  The  horses,  ever  wrapped  in  moist 
clouds,  became  caparisoned  with  glistening  needles. 

They  struck  down  among  a  horde  of  symmetrical, 
steep  terraces,  and  reached  the  river  that  afternoon, 
under  heavens  all  dark  azure  upon  the  horizon,  but  a 
dusky  pink  above.  It  was  a  raging  glacial  torrent, 
and  ten  days  passed  before  the  chaotic  rim-ice  locked 
across  the  steaming  vein  of  water,  or  smothered  its  im- 
mense, ice-hummocked  boulders. 

n 

In  that  time,  struggling  up  and  down  sheer  scarps, 
through  the  snow-choked  willows  of  slues,  half  rations 
and  the  blighting  cold  incessantly  thinned  the  armour 
of  their  will  and  self-restraint.  The  cords  of  each  face 
stood  out,  distorted,  under  its  bronze  snow-burn  which 
the  frost  no  longer  crimsoned,  but  now  blotched  with 
pallid  spots,  as  if  the  skin  were  peeling.  The  irrita- 
tion at  trivialities  of  person  and  habit,  that  the  fight 
across  the  Tordrillons  had  eclipsed,  reharassed  them 
acutely.  Halting  to  chew  their  frozen  bread  and  beans 
at  noon,  tottering  stiff -legged  and  aching  to  pitch  camp 
at  night,  they  succumbed  to  dejected,  spiritless  silences. 

After  Eleven's  bursts  of  speed  ahead,  when  he  fell 
back  quickly  tuckered  (in  the  way  of  athletes  not  daz- 
zled by  competition),  Pete  would  taunt  him  for  lack  of 
nerve,  and  break  the  loyalty  of  partnership  by  telling 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  443 

Gail  how  Perry  had  "  welched  "  on  hikes  in  the  Sierras. 
Dead-0's  gorging  his  jaw  with  tobacco,  spitting  at 
meals,  set  Lena's  teeth  on  edge ;  it  worried  her  foresight 
that  the  man's  dry  equanimity  would  lapse  when  his 
plugs  gave  out.  And  he  was  more  outraged  than  any- 
one at  Clara's  eating  much  of  her  ration  uncooked,  and 
throwing  away  bread  crusts.  Thus,  while  Pete  had 
been  the  most  balanced  and  self-contained  in  the  outfit, 
Clara,  whose  aberrations  should  have  quite  unnerved 
her,  escaped  any  visible  impatience,  but  laid  the  hard- 
est, sinister  burden  on  them  to  bear  with  her  —  all 
proving  to  Gail  how  the  trail  at  its  bitterest  makes  a 
paradox  of  life. 

Likewise,  Eleven  seemed  insensitive  to  minor  annoy- 
ances. Yet  his  smaller  ways  chiefly  taxed  Gail's  for- 
bearance: taking  an  hour  to  dress,  eternally  changing 
his  socks  and  moccasins.  He  kept  his  dunnage  bag, 
which  was  twice  as  big  -and  heavy  as  any  other, 
strapped  outside  the  bald-face's  load,  and  would  halt 
the  train  to  shift  his  black  lamb  cap  for  the  red  toque. 
In  the  tent,  with  head  and  arms  plunged  into  its  depths, 
he  packed  and  unpacked,  folded  and  refolded  his  duffle 
—  among  it  an  inflatable  rubber  jacket  to  wear  in 
fording  glacier  streams,  which  Gail,  looking  on  with 
locked  jaws,  conceived  that  he  spitefully  treasured  for 
its  very  uselessness.  It  would  prey  on  Gail  that  such 
extra  weight  was  a  drag  on  their  progress,  slowly  was 
spelling  disaster.  Through  his  desolate  hours  with  the 
teams,  he  would  plot  means  of  "  losing "  the  bag ; 
narrate  to  himself  a  detailed  and  vindictive  story  of 
Eleven's  discovering  the  loss,  of  his  anger,  and  the  dra- 
matic gun-play. 

But  Gail  best  controlled  himself  in  the  larger  issues, 
which  all  centred  upon  the  grub;  and  toward  it  Eleven 


444       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

skirted  closest  to  the  breaking  point.  For  a  week 
after  the  sugar  had  been  cached,  he  made  a  show  of 
refusing  to  drink  any  tea.  Gail  stocked  the  grub-box 
for  the  day  after  breakfast  every  morning,  and  had  de- 
tailed Lena,  as  cook,  to  divide  the  bread  and  bacon,  fill 
the  cups  at  meals.  With  all  staring  avidly  at  her,  a 
protesting  murmur  seldom  failed  to  escape  Dead-O, 
or  even  the  mute-eyed  Clara.  Gail  read  in  their  set 
and  glittering  pupils  the  lurking  suspicion  that  Arlene 
ate  on  the  sly,  which  indeed  her  manner  of  aloofness 
then  confirmed.  Eleven  scanned  her  venomously,  his 
thin  lips  twitching,  as  if  he  were  counting  the  beans  on 
each  plate.  Gail  would  shudder  with  inklings  of  the 
bestial  thoughts  that  rise  under  the  thrall  of  hunger, 
which  he  felt  were  surging  through  the  poor  man's 
brain.  Eleven  seemed  ever  battling  for  the  elusive  best 
in  him,  at  the  verge  of  some  inhuman,  flaring  charge. 
And  yet  he  made  none  as  the  unstable  days  succeeded. 
Gail  counted  them,  one  by  one,  as  steadying  his  own 
dominance,  and  came  to  think  that  he  saw  through  his 
own  disordered  thoughts  the  glimmering  light  of  an 
achievement  in  governing  men  so  desperate. 

ni 

The  Terra-cotta  Peaks  had  long  nicked  the  horizon, 
a  diadem  of  ochre  pinnacles,  all  but  clear  of  snow, 
against  the  diaphanous  blue  of  the  rigid  winter  sky. 

Not  having  the  dogs  hitched,  Clara  traveled  less  with 
Eleven,  who  continued  now  petulant,  now  blatant. 
And  he  seemed  soon  to  evince  a  cunning  toward  her. 
He  made  a  mystery  of  their  association,  pretended  to  a 
hidden  intimacy,  and  was  openly  solicitous  about  her 
health  and  dress.  Yet  she  responded  to  him  no  more 
than  formerly.  Thus  Gail  divined  that  Eleven,  hav- 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  445 

ing  finally  failed  to  assert  his  mastery  of  the  outfit, 
was  in  his  roundabout,  insidious  way,  by  vengefully 
arousing  Gail's  jealousy,  seeking  a  flank  attack. 

This  struck  Gail  forcibly  while  behind  the  teams  late 
one  afternoon,  as  they  were  crossing  a  tundra  of  nigger- 
heads  deep  in  an  amphitheatre  of  opalescent  peaks. 
At  once  the  stream  of  his  grotesque  fancies  seized  upon 
and  worried  the  misgiving.  He  imaged  the  long-pent 
passions  of  them  all  astir,  sensed  a  fateful  outcome 
tragic  and  violent  beyond  any  surmise,  shattering  his 
grip  on  himself  and  these  trail-mates,  parodying  his 
wisdom  of  the  wild. 

Just  ahead,  the  creak  of  runners  and  sound  of  bells 
on  the  sled  drawn  by  the  grey  gelding  ceased.  It  had 
come  to  a  stop  in  a  dense  thicket  of  alders.  Gail  peered 
through  them.  Low  voices  caught  his  ear.  Lena  and 
Eleven,  crouching  under  the  horse,  were  tightening  its 
britching.  .  .  .  With  the  whole  party  in  the  tent,  be- 
tween those  repressed  silences  imposed  by  the  wear  of 
personalities  and  work-a-day  details,  little  more  than 
commonplaces  now  passed  anyone's  lips.  Only  with 
two  alone  did  speech  ever  dare  the  truth,  or  could  be 
gauged  the  depth  of  valour,  sincerity,  or  hallucination. 
And  since  such  times  alone  cast  a  searching  vision  into 
life,  Gail  sharpened  his-  ears,  guiltlessly. 

He  started,  a-tingle,  at  Lena's  answering  ques- 
tion: 

"  So  you  want  to  know  what  I  was,  or  am,  to  Gail 
Thain?  That  can't  make  any  odds  to  you,  who  boasts 
he's  got  no  conscience  in  anything." 

Her  tone  was  coloured  by  the  scorn  that,  capping 
the  couple's  slow  alienation,  had  finally  expressed  it- 
self on  the  night  after  crossing  the  Tordrillon  pass. 

"  It  doesn't.     I  don't  give  a  hoot,  and  don't  want  a 


446       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

conscience,  or  to  care  for  anyone."  Yet  in  Eleven's 
bravado  there  lurked  a  faltering. 

"  Well,  before  we  quit  I'm  going  to  make  you  care," 
the  woman  retorted  strongly,  "  and  about  me,  Perry, 
as  I  have  for  you  —  but  only  since  this  hike  began. 
Then  I'll  make  a  clean  breast,  but  meanwhile  I'm  mum 
to  everyone.  D'you  think  I'd  give  myself  away  while 
you're  making  this  play  to  his  Clara?  I  like  you  more 
than  it's  ever  been  in  my  nature  to  favour  anyone  be- 
fore," she  flashed,  resentfully,  and  Gail  winced  at  this 
echo  of  her  old  self.  "  Oh,  I  could  tell  you  things  — 
and  about  this  Clara." 

Gail  bristled  with  a  hot  bewilderment.  So  the  two 
women  shared  confidences.  Often  seeing  them  together, 
he  had  long  suspected  that.  But  the  sled,  jangling  on 
again,  drowned  the  dialogue,  so  that  Gail,  briskly  creep- 
ing up  invisible  behind  the  load,  only  heard  Eleven  say, 

"  I  know  I'm  not  the  ace  for  the  trail  that  I  pretend 
to  be.  But  Thain's  the  last  man  I'd  admit  it  to." 

"  It's  no  more  use  your  hiding  that  from  him  than  to 
think  you've  got  a  show  with  Clara.  She  and  Gail  — 
that  pair ! "  Lena  sighed  with  a  direct,  astounding  ad- 
miration. "  They're  folks  to  look  up  to.  Bucking 
this  winter  trail  has  taught  me  a  lot  of  respect  for 
things  I  used  to  scoff  at,  and  they  set  the  pace.  I  wish 
you'd  only  see  things  with  their  eyes,  too." 

"  That's  the  line  of  talk  his  Clara  gives  me,"  cyn- 
ically put  in  Eleven,  shamelessly,  "  every  time  I  tell 
her  how  she's  hipped  me." 

Gail's  heart  had  at  once  leaped  and  blackened;  the 
first  at  this  proof  of  his  beloved's  effort  to  redeem  the 
man,  the  second  in  that  Clara  was  alert  with  others 
while  ever  glum  and  obsessed  toward  himself.  He 
curbed  the  maq!  impulse  to  confront  and  accuse  Eleven. 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  447 

"What  drove  me  to  her,  started  you  and  me  drift- 
ing apart,"  Eleven  charged,  continuing,  "  was  the  slant 
you  had  for  Thain  at  first." 

"  That's  all  over.  Gail  was  something  to  me  once. 
I  only  started  to  win  him  again,"  confessed  the  woman. 
"  It  was  half  in  sentiment,  half  in  a  jealousy  of  Clara  I 
found  I  could  hide.  There  used  to  be  something  secre- 
tive, underhand  in  me  —  part  of  my  callous  nature. 
But  I  told  you  how  Alaska's  given  me  new  eyes  toward 
everything,  like  I  want  you  to  have." 

Ever  and  again,  this  earnest  of  the  uplifting  majesty 
in  the  Youngest  World! 

"  It's  changed  Gail,  too,"  she  went  on.  "  I  never 
used  to  give  him  credit  for  his  wild  ideas.  But  there's 
more  than  sense,  a  terrible  truth,  in  some  of  them." 
She  paused  suddenly.  "  Clara's  the  finest  woman 
I've  ever  known.  She  has  her  doubts  and  troubles, 
worse  than  any  man  could  suspect.  I've  promised — • 
I'd  most  give  my  life  —  to  help  her." 

Again  wonder  and  the  gnaw  of  misdoubts,  for  all  the 
trust  and  reticence  which  Clara  had  urged  on  that 
first  night  in  the  valley,  flooded  Gail's  bosom.  For  a 
while  neither  voice  ahead  sounded.  Above  the  tinny 
monotony  of  the  horsebells,  he  heard  the  metal  ring  in 
the  stock  of  Eleven's  30-30  rifle  clink  now  and  then. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  why  I  used  to  be  so  hateful,"  spoke 
up  Lena  soon.  "And  it  was  Clara  showed  me  how 
wrong  I  was  from  the  very  bottom." 

She  broke  off  so  abruptly  that  Gail  leaned  to  one 
side  of  the  sled  to  see  them.  Lena  was  muttering  into 
Eleven's  ear.  Why?  They  were  unaware  of  Gail's 
presence.  Once  Eleven  started  back  impatiently  on 
his  always  out-bent  knees.  He  turned  his  side-face, 
and  Gail  withdrew  disdainfully  at  sight  of  the  man's 


448       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

thin  lips  and  low-set  dimples  set  tight  with  a  sardonic 
grin.  Finally  — 

"Ha!"  Eleven  gaped  aloud.  "If  I  thought  you 
weren't  kidding  me !  " 

"  But  there  can  be  love  besides,"  she  exclaimed,  un- 
heeding, "  even  though  the  body  is  unfit." 

But  Eleven  had  broken  into  a  resounding,  raucous 
guffaw. 

"  I  tell  you  it's  no  laughing  matter  about  me,"  she 
cried,  stridently.  "  Take  that  ...  and  that.  .  .  ." 

Gail  heard  the  impact  of  a  mittened  fist.  A  dash  of 
snow  powder  spurted  above  the  sled  load,  and  he  saw 
Eleven  running  forward  from  her,  as  if  he  were  just 
regaining  his  feet. 

Lena  had  struck  at  him. 

They  two  had  reached  that  boundary  between  the 
trivial  and  the  vital,  the  bestial  and  the  ideal,  laughter 
and  tragedy.  Always  a  hair  divided  triumph  from 
oblivion.  To  keep  one's  head,  only  to  keep  one's 
head! 

Angry  at  his  tolerance,  that  as  their  leader  he  had 
not  curbed  them,  Gail  started  ahead  after  Eleven.  He 
guessed  that  the  unheard  depth  of  Lena's  secret  might 
be  contrition  for  her  barrenness;  and  he  hated  Eleven 
for  his  slur.  At  length  Gail  found  him  with  the  lead 
team.  Fagged  from  the  dash  at  breaking  trail,  Eleven 
was  leaning  panting  on  his  rifle,  and  at  sight  of  Gail 
protested  in  a  strained,  guilty  tone, 

"  Think  I'm  played  out,  do  you?  You  try  breaking 
through  these  hummocks  yourself." 

A  pitiful  look  on  his  drawn,  ever  rather  contemptu- 
ous features  calmed  Gail,  as  he  heard  him  murmur, 
"  Lena  was  right,  too.  .  .  ." 

"  Look   here,    Eleven.     You   got  to   quit  talking  to 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  449 

these  women,  both  of  them,  like  you  do.     And  keep 
off  clean  from  Clara." 

(Everyone  else  in  the  outfit  called  him  "  Perry,"  as 
he  had  requested  in  his  elation  on  leaving  salt  water, 
but  by  some  obscure  impulse  Gail  had  not.) 

"  That's  up  to  her,  I  estimate,"  Eleven  retorted,  but 
cowedly.  "  You  don't  understand  your  woman.  She's 
got  too  nice  a  streak  for  you." 

The  taunt  failed,  his  voice  was  so  tremulous.  And 
for  one  who  had  so  scorned  and  derided  womankind,  his 
words  amazed  and  appeased  Gail  into  silence. 

"  A  man  wants  something  he  can  hang  to  in  this 
country,"  Perry  all  at  once  broke  out.  "  No  mat- 
ter how  he  talks,  you've  got  to  own  a  living  being  to 
look  up  to,"  he  mumbled  with  the  excited  incoherence 
lately  typical  of  him. 

That  ache  entrenched  in  his  heart  by  a  sordid  life, 
bared  at  last  and  by  the  North!  Thus  the  land  re- 
quited even  this  blustering,  weak,  conceited  man  with 
the  transfiguring  might  of  all  human  aspiration. 

"  Well,  won't  you  own  one,  if  you  keep  your  contract 
with  Arlene? "  quietly  voiced  Gail.  "  To  say  noth- 
ing of  love,  if  you  ever  felt  it." 

Lena  in  the  end  with  Eleven,  mad<e  a  man.  That  was 
the  hope! 

"  So  your  Clara  tells  me.  But  love !  "  he  snorted, 
and  threw  back,  with  an  overbearing  belligerence, 
"  You  leave  Lena  alone.  She's  the  one  that's  mine." 

His  frankness  held  Gail  from  contempt ;  and  thus  the 
harping  upon  Clara  flicked  him  upon  the  raw.  But 
Gail  strove  to  quench  his  anger  by  reviewing  that  her 
confessed  interest  in  Eleven  avowedly  but  kept  their 
pact  to  reclaim  him. 

"  I  warned  you."     Gail  gritted  his  teeth,  slapping 


450       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

the  holster  at  his  waist.     "  Don't  you  sneer  me  into 
winging  you." 

"Hell!  Can't  I  shoot,  too?"  And  Eleven  rattled 
the  ring  on  his  rifle  butt. 

Their  gaze  met,  but  the  threat  was  as  shallow  as  the 
fire  in  Perry's  greenish  eyes.  His  vanity  of  leadership 
broken  in  their  first  clash,  the  fight  in  him  was  defensive 
purely.  Yet  always  the  gruelling  ordeal  of  the  trail, 
the  stress  of  controlling  these  maundering  partners, 
made  Gail  less  sure  of  himself,  and  thinned  the  wall  be- 
tween the  evanescent  and  the  profound,  made  the  equi- 
librium of  life  ever  less  stable  in  the  heightened  and 
deluding  surge  of  his  introspections. 

"  You  don't  mean  that,  Perry,"  (thus  for  the  first 
time,  instinctively)  averred  Gail.  "  If  you  don't  like 
how  I'm  running  this  outfit,  you  can  back-trail  any  day 
you're  a-mind  to." 

"0-ho!  You  talk  of  quitting,  eh?"  cut  in  Eleven, 
satirically.  "  You,  no  one  else,  has  squealed.  A  man 
that  hollers  so  on  a  trip  like  this  accuses  himself  of  any- 
thing. He'd  be  the  one  that's  been  pilfering  from  the 
grub-box  nights." 

At  last,  the  expected  charges  of  treachery.  The 
prime  thought  shook  Gail  that,  since  he  was  certain  that 
Eleven  would  be  the  first  to  "  lay  down  "  and  steal  at  a 
crisis,  the  man  was  deceivingly  preparing  his  role  for 
that,  bluffing  to  cover  his  tracks  to  the  food. 

"  We  haven't  missed  any  grub,"  said  Gail,  with  a 
strange  solemnity. 

The  other  gave  a  hollow  laugh.     "  No,  you  haven't." 

"  You  meant  me,  then,"  cried  Gail,  breathless,  whip- 
ping his  hand  again  to  the  automatic.  "  Eat  that  lie !  " 

But  Eleven's  wild  stare  wilted.  And  Gail  had  ex- 
pected him  to  fly  off  the  handle ! 


THE    BLUE   BITCH  451 

"  Damn !  "  he  evaded,  huskily.  "  I  suppose  there's 
others  besides  you.  But  we'll  never  get  out  of  this. 
And  the  devil  with  gold! " 

He  stumbled  clumsily  over  a  nigger-head,  and  disgust 
swept  Gail.  "  It's  the  man  who  first  smells  smoke  that 
makes  it,"  muttered  he. 

Eleven  seemed  not  to  hear,  and  soon  was  dropping, 
slinking,  backward  toward  Lena.  Clara  in  her  ermine 
parka  came  into  view,  the  blue  bitch  Klika  close  at  her 
heels.  Always  the  two  were  together.  She  had  circled 
the  outfit  from  behind,  slavishly  breaking  trail  after  the 
foraging  dog,  who  seemed  to  move  heavily  and  labour- 
edly  through  the  hummocks,  her  pointed  ears  back  and 
fluffy  tail  drooping. 

His  thoughts  concentrated  upon  Clara.  A  desire 
seized  him  to  join  and  question  her  on  the  worry  about 
which  she  had  pleaded  silence.  But  the  wish  weakened, 
with  a  sense  of  some  tie  between  her  and  the  dog. 
Their  unswerving  allegiance  mingled  in  him  distress 
and  hopefulness.  And  whenever  Gail  was  with  Clara 
the  blue  animal's  furtive  devotion  imposed  a  dumbness 
more  timid  than  even  her  derangement  should  warrant. 
But  if  her  mind  was  clouded,  her  energies  waning,  she 
maintained  her  endurance  and  a  grewsome  physical 
toughness,  insensitive  to  any  hardship,  neither  hungry 
nor  complaining  in  her  miraculous  stamina. 

No!  Clara's  loyalty  had  been  but  steeled.  Both 
her  and  everyone,  the  portentous  North  chastened  and 
indurated  for  its  beneficent  ends. 

"  Got  a  whang-leather?  "  suddenly  Pete's  bass  voice 
came  from  the  bald-face's  sled.  "  Heaven  help  us  if 
the  dog-traces  is  as  rotten  as  our  harnesses."  And 
Gail  turned  back  to  help  him  lash  a  torn  girth,  as  the 
other  teams  tinkled  onward.  "  The  dog  gear's  rot- 


THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

tener,  if  Perry  bought  it."  Recently  a  peevish  habit  of 
borrowing  trouble  had  corrupted  his  canny,  just,  good- 
nature. As  they  started  once  more,  he  said  with  a 
hushed  unction, 

"Recollect  last  night  that  end  o'  bacon?  How  I 
says  to  Lena,  to  try  her  sort  of,  *  Ain't  a  dog's  meal,  is 
it?  Jest  right  to  stick  in  the  beans?  '  Made  her  think 
I'd  put  it  there,  so  we  shouldn't  miss  it." 

Wheezing,  he  awaited  an  answer,  but  Gail  only  shook 
his  head. 

"  Well,  when  you  come  to  give  out  the  grub  this 
morning,  that  chunk  was  gone.  And  no  dog  could  ha* 
got  it,  because  the  sack  where  'twas  stowed  wa'n't 
chawed  into." 

"You  told  Eleven?"     Gail  frowned. 

"The  hell,  no!  It's  him  I  suspect.  This  is  jest  to 
tell  you  I  ain't  any  longer  watching  the  women  I  used 
to  —  particular  she  that  nags  me  about  spitting." 

"Arlene?" 

"  You've  said  it.     But  the's  others." 

Gail  felt  a  fury  overtaking  him.  With  a  sickening, 
ominous  thrill,  he  was  about  to  blurt  an  inane  plea  for 
Clara  in  her  unhinged  state,  when  Pete  added,  "  Look 
yonder.  There  she  is  with  the  dog  and  him.  Watch 
that  bitch,  Gail.  She'll  be  the  death  of  us  yet." 
As  he  pointed,  his  voice  had  sunk  to  a  hoarse  whisper. 
But  he  caught  himself  with,  "  I'm  layin'  behind  to  tend 
the  brown  mare's  sore  wither,"  and  was  gone. 

Through  the  thinning  spruces  bordering  the  river, 
Gail  saw  three  silhouettes  in  the  pale  gloaming:  Bleven, 
Clara,  with  the  blue  Klika  between  them.  Dazed,  he 
could  not  restrain  himself  from  creeping  up  on  them, 
until  he  heard  Eleven's  high  voice,  a-quiver  with  feel- 
ing  — 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  453 

"  I  know  I  ain't  fit  yet.  But,  Clara,  I'm  blind  crazy 
for  you." 

And  through  the  thunder  in  his  ears,  he  thought  that 
he  caught  her  adventurous  laugh.  But  certainly: 

"  Perry,  if  you  knew  the  truth,  you'd  hate  me,"  came 
Clara's  answer,  clear  and  distinct.  "  Is  that  how  you 
treat  my  friendliness  ?  For  your  own  good,  be  a  man ! 
.  .  .  Wait  — foolish  boy." 

A  red  mist  streaked  across  Gail's  vision.  The  dread- 
ful, excruciating  pause  pressed  his  burning  vitals  into 
his  boots.  He  held  the  automatic  pistol  in  his  hand, 
cocked  and  pointed,  steady. 

Bleven  was  repeating  her  name  —  beseeching.  Gail 
caught  the  word,  "  Love,"  and  was  mad.  .  .  . 

The  thin  wall  against  Death!  The  tottering  bal- 
ance of  existence !  .  .  .  His  proof  of  manhood,  of  mas- 
tery over  the  Self,  now. 

"  It's  not  honest  love  —  you've  given  that  to  Lena," 
Clara  cried  fiercely.  "  You  beast !  .  .  .  Look  —  look ! 
That  cloud — "  she  stopped  dead  in  her  tracks,  her 
voice  breaking  with  the  bewilderment  he  knew.  "  Like 
a  whale's  fin.  It's  hung  there  —  just  so  —  for  days. 

99 

The  weighted  wrist  fell  limp.  Gail  found  himself 
shuddering,  drenched  with  sweat.  The  bitch  began  to 
whimper.  Bleven  veered  onward,  aside,  into  the  dark 
timber. 

Gail  caught  her  in  his  arms.  She  yielded,  speechless, 
still  pointing  into  the  white  spaces  on  high.  And 
yonder,  over  alders  opening  into  wider  reaches,  be- 
tween velvety,  unreal  hills,  they  beheld  the  filmy  layers 
of  a  flat,  iridescent  nimbus,  shaped  like  the  dorsal  of 
some  gigantic  ocean  mammal.  ...  A  cloud!  In  the 
moment  all  his  hot  thirsts  and  loathing,  equally  with 


454       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

the  paltry  routine  of  camp  and  mushing,  drew  into  the 
remoteness  of  that  faint  and  icy  mist.  And  so  also, 
to  the  throbbing  of  Clara's  heart,  vanished  this  canker 
of  his  jealousy  toward  the  intriguing  Eleven.  Thus  all 
emotion,  delirious,  petty,  soul-pervading,  might  lose 
contrast  and  perspective.  .  .  .  Must  this  keep  on,  un- 
til defeat,  or  victory  through  his  beloved? 

They  were  emerging  into  new  regions.  Birches  cov- 
ered the  strange  hills,  in  a  red-brown  fuzz,  and  their 
fretted  branches  caught  the  southern  glow  in  tiny,  sil- 
ver-yellow veins.  Soon  Gail  missed  the  elusive,  drum- 
ming undertone  of  the  river  through  its  broken  ice. 
Across  the  luminous  snow,  folding  away  into  clear  dis- 
tances, in  a  sort  of  dead  incandescence  like  a  floor  of 
pale  metal  cooling,  he  discerned  the  reaches  of  the  river, 
frozen  solid  straight  to  the  ruddy  spires  of  the  Terra- 
cottas. 

Tomorrow,  to  travel  with  the  dogs !  The  thick  gulp- 
ing of  the  bells  began  to  clang  out  the  horses'  knell. 

IV 

A  shrill  whistle  from  Dead-0;  then,  "My  Gawd, 
bring  cartridges  enough ! "  shouted  with  a  drawling  ef- 
fort at  casualness,  shivered  the  limp  tent  walls,  to  sig- 
nal that  the  beasts  were  ready  in  their  last  corral. 

Pete  had  volunteered  to  build  it,  during  a  funereal 
breakfast.  Lena  had  offered  to  assist  him  but  he 
roughly  repudiated  any  help.  Gail  had  purposely 
stayed  in  the  tent,  apprehending  an  eruption  from 
Perry.  They  heard  the  crunch  of  the  old  man's  snow- 
shoes,  as  he  wound  a  rope  around  the  three  trees  picked 
close  by  for  the  slaughter ;  but  Eleven,  deep  in  his  dun- 
nage bag,  pretended  an  unconcern,  while  Clara  sat  on 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  455 

her  bedding,  staring  vacantly  at  the  dough-box  over  the 
stove. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  as  they  issued  outside,  and  one 
star  still  swam  over  the  tinsel  sickle  of  the  moon.  First 
Gail,  then  Eleven,  Clara,  Lena,  they  ranged  themselves 
in  line  along  the  tent,  avoiding  one  another's  glances. 
Behind,  slept  the  dusky  expanse  of  the  river;  be- 
fore, over  the  dead  and  greenish  snow,  the  timber  thick- 
ened against  a  bossed  cliff  of  porphyry.  The  three 
spruces  of  the  corral  made  a  triangle,  its  base,  hardly 
ten  yards  long,  fronting  them  and  not  thirty  away. 
The  horses  stood  with  their  heads  at  this  barrier  of  a 
half-dozen  rope  strands  —  the  sorrel,  buckskin,  baldy, 
the  two  greys  and  the  mischievous  brown  mare,  who 
alone,  with  neck  arched  and  trembling,  spasmodically 
ringing  her  bell,  betrayed  any  foreboding  of  doom. 
Starved  and  with  sunken  withers,  their  bones  stood  out 
sharp  and  gaunt;  the  ever-humid  rime  steamed  on  the 
shaggy,  unkempt  coats.  It  had  pencilled  the  horizontal 
ovals  of  their  eyes  with  thick  crusts  of  whiteness,  which 
gave  them  the  fantastic  look  of  wearing  carnival  masks. 
Occasionally  in  the  tense  wait  a  head  dipped  to  the 
snow,  delicately  rooted  a  snaky  track  on  its  surface, 
licking  up  a  last,  useless  drink. 

"  Dead-0 !  Cut  off  their  bells,"  suddenly  came  Elev- 
en's cracked  voice,  "  or  I  shan't  stand  it  when  they 
break  against  the  sides." 

Pete  had  appeared  with  an  arm  uplifted  from  behind 
the  left-hand  tree,  his  bristling  white  hair  hatless,  a 
sheepish  stare  on  his  pocked  face,  now  like  parchment 
under  its  bluish  pits.  Still  panting  from  excitement 
and  the  work,  he  drew  his  knife  in  acquiescence.  Lena 
strode  forward  to  aid  him,  but  after  three  paces  sank 


456       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

back  wilted  against  the  tent.  Clara  caught  her  breath 
as  each  bell  plopped  underfoot. 

Gail  raised  Eleven's  rifle,  as  Dead-O  joined  them. 
He  fired  first  at  the  sorrel,  aiming  between  the  eyes.  In- 
stantly the  air  was  choked  with  flying  snow,  and  it  was 
a  moment  before  he  saw  that  the  creature  had  fallen 
clean.  The  others,  kicking  in  a  mad  stampede,  charged 
against  the  ropes  with  the  blind  and  frenzied  terror  of 
horses  in  the  presence  of  their  dead.  The  dogs  broke 
into  instinctive  wails  and  yelps  in  their  tent,  but  above 
all  throbbed  the  piteous  whinnies  of  the  brown  mare. 

Gail  shot  again  —  at  the  bald-face.  He  also  fell ; 
and  once  more  the  sickening  turmoil,  the  white  haze. 
Out  of  it  swam  scarlet  patches.  The  remaining  four 
stumbled  over  and  trod  upon  the  bodies,  callous  and 
reckless  in  their  vain,  all-blotting  fight  for  life.  Now 
and  then  sounded  the  sharp  thud  of  hoofs  striking  a 
buried  bell.  But  most  unseating  to  Gail's  mind  was 
Lena,  whom  he  would  have  taken  oath  would  face  the 
execution  without  wincing.  She  was  weeping  bitterly; 
and  Eleven,  whom  he  had  expected  to  collapse,  had  his 
green  eyes  bulging,  his  lower  jaw  protruded,  and  was 
breathing  out  and  upward  through  a  round  aper- 
ture in  his  lips,  as  if  seized  by  some  fierce,  sadistic 
thirst. 

The  dark  grey,  dappled  mare  surrendered  next.  She 
cowered  in  the  right-hand  corner.  Gail  felt  that  but 
for  the  clownish  rings  about  her  eyes  he  would  have 
flinched  at  their  heart-rending,  abject  appeal.  His 
arm  quivered  as  he  levelled  the  gun.  .  .  .  He  had  only 
shot  through  her  neck.  With  her  brother  gelding,  she 
charged  against  a  rear  side  of  the  corral.  It  sagged 
with  a  ripping  noise,  but  the  desperate  animals  were 
innocent  of  making  a  concerted  breach.  Gail  laid  her 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  457 

low  in  the  angle  by  the  rear  tree,  and  drew  a  bead  upon 
her  grey  mate  —  but  ineffectually. 

Clara  had  lunged  forward  with  a  shriek,  seized  the 
rifle  from  his  hands,  and  fired  at  the  gelding.  He  fell. 
Gail  had  found  himself  trying  to  wrest  the  weapon  from 
her,  shouting  to  Pete  for  help.  Then,  lurching  into  the 
tent,  she  yielded  it  to  him;  and  starting  about  as  he 
recovered  himself,  Gail  saw  Dead-O  leaning  forward, 
sick  on  the  snow. 

Only  the  brown  mare  and  the  buckskin  remained. 
The  first  had  leaped  the  broken  ropes,  and  was  plough- 
ing wildly  toward  the  rock  wall.  She  was  stalled  as 
safely  as  in  a  summer  mud-hole,  so  Gail  picked  off  old 
buck,  crouching  to  jump  and  follow.  Then  — 

"  Get  her !  Git  her !  "  yelled  Eleven,  striking  to  grab 
the  gun  from  him.  But  Gail  dodged,  and  fired  at  the 
mare.  Death  cut  her  last  cry  abruptly,  like  a  final, 
querulous  interrogation.  All  was  over,  in  seven  shots 
from  the  magazine. 

The  silence  that  tore  Gail's  bosom  was  broken  only 
by  Pete's  retching,  and  the  relentless  ululation  of  the 
hidden  dogs.  Acrid  smoke  filled  his  nostrils,  the  reports 
still  stunned  on  his  ears ;  the  forest,  the  prone  corpses 
with  their  straight,  stiff  legs  swam  in  his  sight.  Lena 
had  bound  a  red  bandanna  across  her  eyes,  and  was 
groping  for  the  tent  door  like  one  blind.  But  Bleven 
stood  beside  him,  rigid,  staring  with  mouth  open,  spell- 
bound and  unsatiated. 

A  pinkish  light  flushed  the  snow.  The  deep  blue  sky, 
filled  with  long  coils  and  cues  of  immobile,  felty  clouds, 
brightened  in  flaming  gold  upon  their  edges.  Suddenly 
the  cliff  behind  the  ragged  ropes,  over  the  mute  chaos 
of  trampled  whiteness,  the  frost-stayed  springs  of  blood, 
began  to  glow.  The  immature  light  slanted  among  the 


458       THE   YOUNGEST   WORLD 

spruces  in  shattered  rays  like  silver  quills  of  ice.  The 
rocks  there  shone  as  with  some  soft,  inner  light  such  as 
grows  magically  in  a  fairy  pantomime  when  a  scene 
dawns  behind  some  filmy  veil. 

Gail  caught  a  keen,  stifling,  horsey  smell.  It  nause- 
ated him.  He  grasped  that  once  after  some  like  trag- 
edy —  so  long  ago  he  could  not  remember  where  or 
when  —  he  had  wanted  to  eat  horse  flesh.  He  recalled 
his  outburst  to  Eleven  about  dead  humans;  then, 
numbed  by  the  leveling  inconsequence  of  all  zests  lately, 
weak  or  consuming,  once  their  source  was  dimmed,  his 
thoughts  poured  into  blankness,  and  he  shouted  to  break 
camp. 

v 

The  slaughter  detached  the  past  like  some  clean- 
cutting  sword;  and  with  it,  Gail's  faith  in  the  inspirit- 
ing North,  as  stirred  by  Lena's  reclamation,  her  uplift- 
ing of  Eleven  and  his  gleams  of  an  honest  guilelessness. 
Apathy  and  a  renewed  sense  of  failure  cast  Gail  into  the 
vain  resource  of  exalting  the  Self  again.  Yet  he  knew 
that  a  new  vigour  and  optimism  might  as  haplessly 
seize  them  all  again.  For  on  the  smooth  river,  the  fit 
and  willing  dogs  flattered  each  with  the  assurance  of 
covering  big  distances. 

Eleven,  always  subdued  now,  showed  a  plaintive  note 
in  his  moroseness.  Cowed  at  her  rebuff,  he  avoided 
Clara ;  and  she,  although  separated  all  day  from  Klika, 
who  led  the  six  dogs  of  the  larger  sled,  seemed  to  be  no 
more  unbalanced.  But  Eleven's  insinuation  and  Pete's 
charge  about  grub-stealing  ceaselessly  haunted  Gail. 
Still,  watch  the  food  sacks  as  he  did,  and  constantly 
check  up  their  contents,  he  found  no  trace  of  theft. 

At  first  all  hands  competed  to  drive  the  dogs.  Then 
Perry  or  Pete  (a  silent  tolerance  of  Eleven  had  sue- 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  459 

ceeded  S cannon's  open  fealty  to  Gail),  were  generally 
at  the  gee-pole.  They  swung  around  air-holes,  which 
steamed  like  seething  cauldrons,  where  cracks  bounded 
through  the  shaky  ice-fields  in  a  slithering  thunder. 
The  sled  ground  across  bare  gravel  bars,  bumped  over 
rough  rim-ice,  breaking  through  into  dry  caverns. 
With  Bleven  running  backward  in  the  van,  calling 
"  Mush  on  —  Sam,  Prince,  Shaggy,  Klika,  Jumbo !  " 
and  Dead-0,  as  wheelman,  holding  the  plough-like  han- 
dles, they  tackled  hummocks  and  steep  sidebanks ; 
and  at  loading  after  upsets,  the  dogs  tried  to  slip  their 
collars,  and  sat  whimpering  as  they  chewed  the  snow- 
balls packed  in  their  feet.  Gail  ahead  with  Clara  beat 
down  any  high  floe  edges  with  the  axe;  Lena  would  lift 
the  forerunners  over  these,  as  the  restive,  wolfish  crea- 
tures snapped  half  in  play  at  her  hands,  and  she  echoed, 
"  Come  on  puppy,  puppy !  "  At  night  in  the  tent,  they 
braced  sinuous  bodies,  scratching  their  paws  furiously 
on  some  rock  with  growls  of  relief,  to  thaw  them  out. 
And  whoever  meted  each  his  one  dried  salmon,  poured 
out  the  steaming  heaps  of  rice,  stood  alert  to  quell  their 
ravenous  raids  on  one  another's  grub,  the  wrinkling  of 
upper  lips  from  great  eye-teeth,  as  they  flashed  in  swift, 
flesh-tearing,  yowling  fights. 

Yet  the  virus  of  fatigue  never  ceased  to  undermine 
their  masters'  bodies;  the  struggle  of  will  against  the 
pangs  of  hunger  to  demoralise,  while  seeming  insidiously 
to  drug,  their  minds.  After  a  numbing  day,  Bleven 
would  swear  that  they  had  come  twenty  miles :  a  vivid 
joy  seize  all.  But  Gail,  bursting  from  the  tent,  would 
call  that  the  peak  where  they  were  camped  was  the 
same  one  visible  close  to  their  last  halt  —  and  return 
in  a  dumb  ferment.  They  had  lost  sense  of  time  and 
distance. 


460       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

By  turns  dulled  and  over-acute,  Gail  sought  a  refuge 
in  external  form  and  colour.  That  sensitiveness  to 
them,  first  awakened  on  Mt.  Lincoln,  re-possessed  him. 
He  found  himself  more  than  ever  deluded  that  he  was  a 
tangible  part  of  the  wild  extravagance  of  winter  hues. 
Ever  motionless  in  one  quarter  of  the  sky,  lay  the  same 
pale  clouds,  brick-red  or  orange,  like  silky  fuzz  spun 
against  depths  of  emerald  which  darkened  as  one  gazed 
there.  The  day  stretched  momentless  between  the  in- 
stant that  the  sun  peered  over  the  peaks  at  eleven  in  the 
morning,  and  vanished  into  the  same  wall  behind  at  two. 
It  never  shone  upon  rock  or  tree;  but  overlaid  their 
stark  and  pearly  surfaces  with  a  rosiness  itself  a  pig- 
ment; then  with  blazing  gold,  in  transparent,  sheeting 
armour,  which  accented  detail  and  shadow  as  with  a 
volatile,  refracting  liquid,  into  light  so  cold  as  to  be 
fiery.  The  orb  loomed,  a  huge  vermilion  lamp  set  on 
some  hill,  before  a  shield  of  lacquered  brass.  Down  in 
the  river  gloom,  open  water  across  the  tongues  of  bends 
showed  in  misty  spires  of  greenish  and  lemon-col- 
oured threads ;  and  as  the  air-hole  came  nearer,  these 
were  dyed  crimson  and  azure,  like  the  fusing  salts  of 
some  strange  metal,  beneath  black  and  silken  rapids  that 
eddied  fiercely  but  in  silence.  Anon  in  the  twilight  of 
three  o'clock,  the  world  turned  ashen.  Yet  streaks  of 
radiance,  in  phantom  delicate  cymars,  lingered  to  drape 
the  upper  spruces.  The  clouds  wore  into  thinner  shreds. 
The  snow,  like  some  translucent  feld-spar,  exhaled  a 
dead  and  pallid  scarlet  into  the  darkling  vault  of  stars. 

A  deeper,  more  searching  exasperation  replaced  Gail's 
pique  at  Eleven's  idiosyncrasies.  Gail  resented  that  this 
type  of  the  West's  aimless,  selfish  plunderer  should  reap 
the  wealth  from  his  eldorado.  Gail  credited  him  with  a 
baleful  cupidity,  foresaw  the  empire  of  the  North  owned 


THEBLUEBITCH  461 

and  polluted  by  the  childless,  sensual  spawn  of  an 
Hocherda.  For  here  Nature  imposed  no  heroic  men- 
aces, as  on  Mt.  Lincoln ;  they  had  no  barriers,  giddy  and 
unsurmountable,  to  assault;  no  spurring  end  in  glory, 
brotherhood,  and  revelation:  naught  but  the  cold,  mo- 
notony, and  hunger  —  the  press  of  yearnings,  passion- 
ate and  lurking,  every  hour  nakeder  in  the  gathering 
shadow  of  starvation. 

Gail  would  review  the  tales  he  had  heard  or  read  of 
similiar  adventures.  How  empty  was  the  reality,  iron- 
ical the  truth !  In  any  story,  Pete  would  have  given  a 
relief  in  comedy  and  their  hunger  visit  them  with  dreams 
of  banquets,  pathetic  memories  of  homes.  Nothing  of 
the  sort  occurred.  Gail  would  think:  Why  am  I 
here?  Who  are  these  people?  Pioneers,  indeed,  and 
not  the  best  of  them;  beside  the  dry- farmers,  futile, 
avaricious,  false  —  yet  not  the  worst.  But  was  he  him- 
self not  of  them?  No  matter  how  the  land  had  since 
re-made  him,  had  he  not  entered  this  realm  in  ignominy, 
far  less  worthy  than  they?  Still,  at  each  day's  sur- 
vival, he  had  a  flash  of  his  old  transport  on  reaching  a 
victorious  crisis,  of  having  trodden  spheres  beneath 
him ;  and  on  quitting  camp,  of  setting  out  into  the  for- 
tuity beyond  an  enacted  issue,  with  a  confidence  won 
neither  from  the  land,  any  person  or  multitude,  but 
from  his  own  lonely  being.  Never  did  his  old  uncer- 
tainty of  self  depress  him.  He  marvelled  that  he  ever 
could  have  been  a  slave  to  such  misdoubt. 

Above,  folded  the  Terra-cottas.  Only  the  strip  of 
sunless  sky,  between  shivered,  rusty  pinnacles;  below, 
the  dusky  river.  It  dipped  and  zigzagged  around  sharp 
bends;  a  sudden  falling  hinted  of  the  Tsana  canyon. 
It  throbbed  and  muttered  loudly  under  the  muffling  ice, 
and  by  the  first  week  in  December  began  to  "  flood." 


462       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

One  night  they  were  driven  thus  to  camp  early.  All 
day  they  had  continually  circled  the  traps  of  overflows, 
as  the  water,  so  deadly  in  that  cold,  was  caught  on  the 
surface  by  settling  areas,  and  spread  across  its  thin 
snow  like  seme  dark  and  furtive  cloud. 

After  supper,  they  lay  quiet  in  their  bags,  breathing 
fitfully,  too  weary  to  sleep.  Each  had  turned  in  in  his 
day  moccasins,  the  women  without  undoing  their  hair. 
The  bean-pot  hissed  on  the  dull  cherry  cube  of  the 
stove.  They  covered  their  noses  with  bedding,  to  ex- 
clude the  tantalising  fumes.  From  her  post  closest  the 
stove,  Lena  now  and  then  dipped  a  cup  into  the  water- 
bucket,  and  sitting  upright,  poured  it  upon  the  beans, 
stilled  their  bubbling. 

Waking  suddenly,  Gail  grasped  that  he  had  dozed. 
The  others  had  fallen  off  to  sleep,  without  extinguish- 
ing the  lantern.  Hours  must  have  passed,  for  the  oil 
was  out  and  the  wick  burning.  On  reaching  to  turn  it 
down,  Gail  realised  that  he  had  been  aroused  by  a  move- 
ment of  the  tent  wall,  although  the  night  was  windless. 
He  rose  and  saw  that  the  fire  was  dead.  He  cast  his 
eyes  over  the  mounds  of  the  sleeping-bags,  each  with  a 
cap  of  frost  about  its  aperture.  The  moon  was  full 
again,  and  the  tent  sides  gleamed  as  if  under  a  stage 
spotlight. 

The  kettle  of  beans  was  gone  from  the  stove.  Gail's 
breath  left  him.  And  a  sleeping-bag  in  the  middle  of 
the  tent  was  flat  and  empty.  Confused  by  the  glare, 
he  leaped  to  the  assumption  that  it  was  Eleven's. 

Eleven!  —  who  had  as  good  as  accused  him.  To 
throw  dust  in  his  eyes  —  hide  the  villainy  fated  for  one 
like  him!  Gail  felt  the  hair  stiffen  along  his  temples, 
and  ground  his  jaws  in  anger.  He  thrilled  mur- 
derously to  the  man's  trick.  Eleven  had  taken  the 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  463 

grub  outside  for  a  midnight  orgy.  One  could  not 
measure  how  much  the  beans  would  swell  in  cooking;  he 
could  get  a  square  meal,  and  in  the  morning  avoid  sus- 
picion of  how  many  had  disappeared. 

Gail  thrust  the  automatic  into  his  belt,  crept  from 
his  bed.  In  the  open,  he  was  blinded  for  an  instant  by 
the  splendour  of  the  night.  The  forest  was  drenched 
as  with  quicksilver ;  the  strip  of  sky  was  so  black  it 
smothered  the  stars,  which  pierced  it  slowly  in  sap- 
phire splashes.  Along  the  ruffled  cliffs  vague  mists 
welled  sable  and  a  velvety  green.  And  not  until  Gail 
had  been  staring  a  while  at  the  other  tent  did  he  see 
the  disc  of  a  candle  in  its  faint  yellow  stain  upon  the 
canvas.  He  stole  forward,  inwardly  swearing  at  the 
steely,  membranous  sound  of  his  moccasins  on  the  crisp 
snow. 

He  lifted  the  flap.  With  the  sight  which  met  him, 
his  galloping  heart  stood  still,  first  with  astonishment, 
finally  in  a  wild  perplexity. 

He  beheld  —  not  Eleven  —  but  Arlene ! 

He  descried  the  furry  ring  of  dogs,  heads  up,  ears  for- 
ward, somnolent-eyed,  as  if  just  aroused.  Lena  was 
kneeling  in  their  centre.  Her  back  to  Gail,  she  held  the 
enameled  pot  tipped  over,  but  was  not  eating  from  it. 
The  candle,  melted  to  a  stone  close  by,  showed  the  cords 
of  her  gaunt  hand  that  grasped  the  big  spoon.  It  was 
ladeling  the  half-cooked  beans  out  on  the  snow.  The 
blue  bitch  Klika  was  softly  wolfing  them  with  an  avid 
hunger,  her  large  body  trembling.  But  with  the  food 
under  their  very  noses,  the  other  half-starved  beasts 
did  not  whimper  in  jealousy  or  emulation.  They  only 
gazed  on  fixedly,  as  if  awed  by  some  dumb,  brutish 
solidarity  inherent  in  the  heritage  of  their  wild  breed. 

Gail  crouched  aghast  and  powerless.     Although  he 


464       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

had  been  ready  to  kill  wantonly,  his  fingers  eased  from 
the  trigger  of  the  revolver.  It  stung  him  for  an  in- 
stant that  Arlene,  hearing  his  approach,  had  started 
as  a  bluff  to  feed  the  animal;  but  the  woman's  intent- 
ness,  the  dogs'  restraint,  their  attitude  as  if  at  some 
expected,  customary  performance,  all  denied  that.  So 
she,  after  all,  had  given  Klika  the  chunk  of  bacon  missed 
by  Dead-0.  And  then,  with  his  ever  haunting  sense  of 
Clara's  affection  for  the  dog,  Gail  recollected  out  of 
the  haze  of  the  past  weeks,  that  Lena  had  hinted  at 
sharing  some  secret  with  Clara.  Lena  had  promised  to 
help  her.  But  why  thus?  And  there  was  Dead-0's 
warning  about  Klika. 

Was  it  a  charity  of  some  sort  that  Arlene  was  show- 
ing? A  charity  that  of  itself  menaced  their  survival! 
And  yet  this  idea  began  to  smother  his  wrath.  In  their 
present  desperation,  the  loss  of  a  few  beans  could 
hardly  matter. 

Gail  dropped  the  flap.  He  stole  back  to  the  tent,  into 
his  bag,  and  slept  until  morning  without  hearing  Lena 
return. 

The  granite-ware  kettle  was  back  ori  the  stove.  No 
one  remarked  the  loss  of  any  beans,  or  lifted  accusing 
glances  from  them.  At  worst,  she  was  not  guilty  of  the 
trail's  blackest  infamy:  Lena  had  not  stolen  for  her- 
self, but  to  fortify  the  chief  dog  of  the  team  upon 
which  deliverance  rested.  Gail  was  even  about  to  dis- 
miss his  discovery  as  an  illusion  of  exhaustion  or  a 
dream,  when  at  breakfast  both  the  women  refused  to  eat 
their  share  out  of  the  pot. 

They  harnessed,  took  the  trail,  and  the  furious  day, 
on  which  the  river  again  and  again  flooded,  obliterated 
these  worries,  and  once  Gail  found  himself  laughing  a 
little  wildly  at  them.  Pete  was  caught  in  an  overflow 


THEBLUEBITCH  465 

that  soaked  his  moccasins.  Careless  of  the  danger,  he 
traveled  till  noon  without  changing  them.  Then  Gail 
beat  his  bare  and  twisted  feet,  rubbed  on  snow ;  yet  the 
man  did  not  wince  with  pain,  as  he  should  have  done 
were  the  blood  returning,  but  kept  on  resolute  and  smil- 
ing. Gail  saw  the  flagging,  active  dogs  distorted, 
their  bodies  now  magnified,  now  dwindling.  Or  he 
heard  an  elusive,  ghoulish  echo  of  the  horses'  bells. 
Snatches  of  tunes,  fragments  of  forgotten  rhymes,  filled 
his  heart  in  a  wearing  iteration.  He  heard  Bleven 
whining  that  the  fumes  from  their  frying  bacon 
robbed  his  frost-bitten  nose  of  feeling.  And  that  night 
Lena  cried  in  her  sleep  that  she  had  found  the  badges 
of  scurvy  on  her  arms.  All  heard  this,  slack,  uncaring, 
acquiescent. 

The  next  day,  purple  rings  circled  Scannon's  in- 
sensate ankles,  and  he  limped. 

VI 

Without  knowing  it,  they  travelled  less  and  less  every 
march.  From  dawn  to  twilight  encompassed  years. 
Skeleton  peaks  ringed  them  —  blood-flushed  beings, 
slowly  growing  atrophied.  One  felt  older  than  the 
stars. 

The  tributary  narrov/ed  toward  a  box  canyon,  which 
Gail  recklessly  assumed  was  part  of  that  coveted  for- 
mation on  the  Tsana.  At  the  waterhole  of  camp  one 
night,  Dead-O  pointed  to  an  animal's  spoor  in  the  light 
snow  that  had  been  falling  all  day.  The  tracks  were 
larger  than  those  of  a  wolf  or  lynx,  smaller  than  a 
bear's,  yet  not  unlike  them. 

"  Wolverine !  The  carcajou"  exclaimed  Gail.  In- 
deed, had  not  shadows  passed  on  the  moon-glazed  walls 
of  the  tent  last  night? 


466       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  Moving  on  our  back-trail,"  said  Pete.  "  Scenting 
old  buck's  and  baldy's  carcasses.  We  ought  to  string 
up  our  grub  tonight." 

But  they  took  no  such  precaution;  and  Gail,  dispell- 
ing a  fretful  sleep  toward  morning,  heard  a  hesitant 
crunching,  scratching  sound  outside  the  tent.  The  wall 
next  to  Clara's  body  began  to  belly  inward.  He 
caught  a  half  sniff,  half  sneeze. 

"  It's  them  —  our  friends,"  whispered  Pete,  as  if  he 
had  been  awake,  listening.  Their  appalled  glances  met. 
"  Don't  wake  the  girls." 

Eleven  lurched  upright  in  his  marmot-skin  bag. 
"  Oh,  whistle  to  them.  Here,  doggy,  doggy,"  he 
broke  into  a  high  sing-song,  but  stared  at  the  ice-hung 
stove-hole,  inertly. 

"  Gimme  his-  gun,"  breathed  Dead-0. 

Gail  had  grasped  the  automatic,  but  too  late.  Be- 
fore Pete  could  draw  the  rifle  on  the  bulging  canvas, 
a  squirming  mass  hurled  against  the  wall.  It  ripped 
and  parted,  as  if  an  avalanche  from  the  mountain  had 
struck  the  tent,  a  force  impalpable  and  yet  resist- 
less ;  an  out-coiling  of  gigantic  metallic  springs  —  warm, 
animal,  acrid.  Twin  black  heads,  wolfish  and  catlike, 
twirled  at  the  centre. 

The  revolver  was  knocked  from  Gail's-  hand,  and  for 
an  instant  he  felt  that  he  was  fighting,  fists  bare,  the 
blinding  night  and  withering  cold.  Not  a  voice,  not  a 
cry;  and  then  the  lightning  assault  of  sinewy,  taut 
limbs.  He  smelt  fetid  breath,  the  sour  odor  of  fur. 
A  flash  of  yellow-white  teeth  shot  through  the  turmoil ; 
of  crooked  and  tearing  claws,  burning,  blood-shot  eyes. 
He  heard  outraged  snarls  and  a  venomous,  throaty  gur- 
gling. Pete,  who  had  so  collapsed  at  the  horse-killing, 
was  wielding  the  rifle-stock;  the  once  blood-thirsty 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  467 

Bleven  defended  himself,  whining  hysterically,  using  the 
cover  torn  from  the  grub-box  as  a  shield.  Lena 
slashed  with  the  axe.  Gail  saw  Clara  fall  upon  and 
seize  the  automatic. 

Its  report  rang  out,  but  only  lashed  the  fury  of  the 
beasts.  Gail  knew  nothing  except  his  rage  to  dig  fingers 
into  their  quivering  flesh,  to  tear  and  blunt  and  kill  the 
pulpy  cords  of  nerve  and  muscle.  He  was  aware  of 
slimy  lips,  the  excessive  heat  within  upright  groins.  He 
was  the  engine  —  puny,  delirious  —  of  so  superlative  a 
brutality,  that  any  processes  of  mind  had  been  ripped 
as  cleanly  from  all  control  as  his  physical  reflexes. 
He  was  fighting  for  the  Self  —  omnipotent ! 

A  dark,  hairy  paw  tore  across  his  forehead.  He  felt 
a  fleshy  ripping,  but  no  pain.  Then  the  rifle-butt  in 
Pete's  hands  chugged  and  bludgeoned  between  him  and 
the  wolveuine's  ultimate  frenzy.  Next,  an  easeful 
blankness.  .  .  . 

He  awoke  and  staggered  upright,  as  a  tide  of  yelps 
closed  around  them.  Other,  friendly,  woolly  forms 
wriggled  between  their  legs.  The  dogs  had  broken  from 
their  tent  and  joined  the  battle.  A  writhing  mound  of 
bodies  whipped  up  the  howling  tumult,  bowled  against 
the  stove.  There  was  a  lurid  spray  of  embers  —  ter- 
rified, defeated  howls  —  and  the  two  fiends  bolted, 
scuttling  off  into  the  up-river  darkness,  the  dogs 
stampeding  after. 

"If  I'd  a-had  jest  one  small  chaw  of  tobacco," 
cackled  Pete,  "  I'd  'a',  croaked  that  customer  for  ye." 

"  Dead-0 ! "  blurted  Gail,  his  eyes  swimming  with 
worship. 

They  glared,  panting  and  speechless,  upon  the  chaos 
strewn  under  the  shredded,  sagging  tent :  torn  dunnage 
and  tarpaulins,  grub,  dishes,  ashes,  gore,  and  flat- 


468       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

tened  stove-pipe.  Lena  with  an  oath  hurled  down  the 
axe.  Clara,  her  hair  streaming,  her  white  jersey  split 
up  the  back  and  splashed  with  crimson,  broke  into  a 
falsetto  laughter.  Eleven  had  sunk  on  his  moaning 
face.  Pete  collapsed  with  a  gasp  beside  him,  his  left 
cheek  and  neck  bleeding.  Gail  felt  a  tepid  trickling 
down  his  forehead,  and  touched  the  soggy  gash  there. 

Dizzily,  he  and  Lena  stamped  out  the  coals  un- 
quenched  by  the  snow,  gathered  the  food  from  the 
wreck,  propped  up  the  tent.  Wan  day  was  looming. 
Far  away  sounded  the  elated  cries  of  the  dogs,  at  last 
returning.  Close  by  a  faint  wail  responded,  from  the 
only  one  which  had  not  entered  the  fray. 

"  Klika ! "  cried  Clara,  shouldering  toward  her 
through  the  tattered  tent  flap. 

As  Lena  lighted  the  stove,  Gail  peered  out  at  the 
homing  animals  bounding  back  in  triumph,  tails  cir- 
cling, tongues  hanging  sideways.  Blood  smeared  them 
all;  tufts-  of  their  rumpled  fur  had  been  torn  out. 
Some  limped  on  three  legs,  and  the  white  Prince  held 
up  a  drooping  paw. 

"  Bless  the  dumb  creatures !  "  breathed  Pete,  hear- 
ing them.  "  We'd  'a'  been  corpses  but  for  them." 

Eleven  stumbled,  snivelling,  to  his  feet.  Gail  turned 
back  into  the  tent. 

"  Two  side  o'  bacon  gone,"  said  Pete.  "  And  half 
that  sack  o'  flour  —  the,  next  to  our  last.  Be'n  all 
ground  into  the  snow.  The  tent's  no  use  now,  either." 

vn 

Gail  was  traveling  alone  behind  the  team,  over  a 
frozen  slue  back  from  the  river.  Eleven  was  driv- 
ing, Lena  and  Clara  breaking  trail  ahead.  The  blood 
kept  pouring,  freezing,  so  that  Gail  knocked  scar- 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  469 

let  slush  from  the  wound  along  his  scalp.  He  bound 
it,  tearing  a  strip  from  his  parka.  He  clenched  his 
fists,  struggling  against  the  life-sapping  darkness  that 
was  closing  in  upon  his  brain. 

Of  a  sudden  the  dogs  stopped  in  a  clump  of  willows. 
Gail  surmised  that  they  were  tugging  the  sled  out  of  a 
chuck-hole.  But  at  a  call  from  Bleven,  the  women 
turned  back  to  help  him,  arid  Pete,  who  was  limping 
in  front  of  Gail,  spurred  on  to  join  them. 

An  ominous  sense  of  disaster  filled  Gail.  Weak  and 
tottering,  he  started  to  plunge  across  the  intervening 
distance  —  about  forty  yards  —  when  Clara,  running 
to  join  the  others,  faced  him.  Her  countenance  was 
blanched,  but  her  voice  clear  and  strong,  as  she  shouted, 
waving  her  arms  in  warning: 

"  Keep  away,  Gail !  I  —  your  Clara  —  say  this  ain't 
for  you  to  see  yet," 

He  halted,  sank  into  the  snow,  ravished  by  an  un- 
bridled alarm.  But  immediately  this  fear  subsided, 
either  by  an  instinct  of  obedience  to  his  beloved,  or  in 
a  flood  of  fatigue  at  this  rare  chance  to  rest.  Per- 
haps four  were  enough  for  the  job;  they  had  seen  him 
bleeding  badly;  he  would  aid  them  when  summoned. 
He  lay  on  the  shining  crust  watching  the  quartette 
huddled,  hushed,  by  the  animals,  who  sat  braced  tensely 
over  some  unseen  action,  quite  as  on  the  night  when  he 
had  detected  Lena.  All  fed  an  immense  rising  column 
of  vapour,  and  presently  he  could  only  think :  "  The 
cold  —  the  cold.  How  the  tiniest  atom  of  life  spouts  a 
geyser  of  steam.  Surely  it's  never  been  so  cold."  Yet 
he  felt  it  only  as  a  faint  hardening  of  the  moist  hairs 
inside  his  nostrils. 

After  a  while  he  heard  Clara  speaking  quietly,  as  if 
fully  aroused  in  all  her  lost  sanity.  She  was  giving 


470       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

orders  in  her  old  vibrant,  compelling  tones.  It  was  the 
Clara  of  months  gone.  And  then  the  foreboding 
silence,  which  had  grown  somehow  expectant,  delectable, 
was  shattered  by  a  howl.  It  began  in  pain,  but  died 
away  in  relief  and  jubilation. 

Klika's  voice.  Gail's  heart  stood  still.  The  other 
dogs  took  up  the  sound  in  a  weird,  exultant,  deafening 
chant. 

Arlene  was  on  her  feet  again.  Gail  arose,  staggered 
forward  a-flame. 

"  Who's  hurt?  "  he  yelled,  gaping  at  the  clamour. 
"What's  up?" 

He  saw  the  stirring  bodies  of  the  team,  their  switch- 
ing, brushy  tails  and  clean  teeth. 

"Klika!"  shouted  Lena.  "She's  had  a  litter  of 
pups  here ! " 

Gail  reeled,  but  caught  his  balance. 

He  beheld  Clara  rise,  lift  four  furry  objects,  one  by 
one,  into  her  soft  white  parka,  holding  it  out  like  an 
apron.  She  pressed  onward  and  vanished  among  the 
bright-stemmed  willows.  Gail  thought  that  he  heard 
her  laughing,  shouting  with  joy.  .  .  . 

From  her  direction,  seemed  to  spread  a  light,  dissolv- 
ing the  clouds  from  his  mind.  But  instantly  a  heavy 
shadow  darkened  it,  like  a  fog.  He  thrust  down  his 
legs,  running,  but  a  power  like  the  invisible  wind  of 
dreams  buffeted  him  from  reaching  his  partners.  The 
white  world  danced  dark,  cadaverous,  unreal  as  to  a 
sleep-walker. 

At  last  he  had  breasted  that  gusty  gap,  and  was 
standing  with  Lena,  Eleven,  and  Pete,  among  the  dogs. 
The  beasts  were  quiet  now,  their  sad  and  mournful,  trust- 
ing eyes  fixed  on  a  red  stain  in  the  trampled  snow. 
Klika  stood  braced  and  quivering,  whimpering  in  glad 


THE    BLUE    BIT  Cll  471 

little  explosions,  although  her  tail  drooped.  As  Lena 
held  her  from  dashing  after  Clara,  the  dog  s'obbered 
at  her  knees.  The  two  men  leveled  a  drawn,  piteous 
glance  at  Gail,  began  hitching  ur-  the  sled,  and  Gail 
imagined  that  he  helped  them  to  harness  the  happy 
bitch. 

They  were  off  again,  going  swiftly.  Klika  pulled 
so  hard  and  impatiently  in  the  lead  that  Gail  kept  up 
with  difficulty. 

He  heard  Pete  and  Perry  talking,  but  at  first  could 
not  make  out  their  words.  They  enunciated  between 
pauses,  as  with  great  effort,  and  their  tones  were  low 
and  flat.  But  soon: 

"  Every  wolf  noddle  of  'em  seemed  to  understand  — 
eh?"  said  Pete  awedly.  "Poor  young  critters  that 
has  got  to  die.  My  heart  more  'n  hurts  for  Klika." 

"  Got  as  much  right  as  we  to  live,"  rasped  Eleven. 
"  And  no  more  chance.  Why  did  Clara  beat  it  on 
with  them?" 

"  Wants  to  fondle  them  alone,"  cut  in  Lena.  "  You 
—  you  men  can't  understand.  But  if  they  do  die,  I 
won't  answer  for  her.  Watch  out." 

The  stillness  drummed  upon  Gail's  ears.  Then,  from 
Perry  - 

"  Thain's  all  in.  You  saw  him  fight  those  wolver- 
ine?" But  compassion,  admiration,  filled  his  voice. 
"  A  king,  he  is." 

"  He'd  wore  himself  out  before,  fer  us,"  stuttered 
Pete.  "  'Round  everywhere,  doing  everything.  And 
we  ain't  hit  that  canyon  yet." 

Gail  thrilled  weakly,  in  a  warming  gratitude,  to  this 
mirage  of  a  long-yearned-for  brotherhood.  With  death 
in  each  throat,  the  benignant  North  was  astir  again 
in  their  behalf! 


472       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

In  a  solemn  hush,  they  emerged  upon  the  river.  Its 
middle  was  streaked  by  a  thread  of  sodden  snow,  the 
mingled  overflow  of  days.  Steep,  jet-like  walls  thrust 
outward,  a  mouth  of  darkness.  Clara  came  into  view, 
still  running,  with  arms  outstretched  over  the  burden  in 
her  parka.  The  ice  bent  to  the  right,  around  a  smooth 
cliff,  into  which  the  steaming  vein  of  seepage  ran. 
There  open  water  fed  an  airy  fountain  of  mists,  tower- 
ing in  elusive  curves.  Clara  skirted  it,  swinging  to  the 
right ;  but  the  dogs,  Eleven  being  unable  to  keep  abreast 
of  them,  and  goaded  by  the  excited  Klika,  held  a  straight 
course. 

They  plunged  into  the  swirling  air-hole,  to  an  agon- 
ised chorus  from  human  throats. 

Gail  found  himself  with  Perry  at  the  sled.  It  hung 
balanced,  slanting  over  the  current,  one  runner  caught 
in  a  ruff  of  ice.  They  saw  the  foam  churned  up  by  the 
helpless,  bedraggled  brutes,  a-struggle  in  sputtering 
yowls,  ever  more  feebly.  Off  slid  the  top  of  the  loose 
load.  The  sled  toppled,  started  after.  Eleven  lunged 
and  held  it;  then  Pete  and  Lena,  violently  panting. 
The  rotten  traces  parted.  Sled  and  grub  were  safe. 

Clara,  ever  clinging  to  the  whelps,  was  dashing  ahead 
along  the  edge  of  ice,  calling  Klika's  name.  She  was 
following  the  freed  mass  of  dogs,  so  rampantly  alive 
a  moment  back,  now  inert,  dancing  down  the  vaporous 
mill-race. 

"  That  bitch,"  maundered  Lena,  at  the  brink.  "  You 
suppose  she  knew  her  pups  must  die  when  we  do?  I 
think  she  drowned  herself  a-purpose.  I've  heard  about 
animals  doing  that." 

Then  a  tide  like  night,  strangely  scintillant,  yet  pal- 
liative, descended  through  Gail's  head. 

He  fell  limp  and  leaden  to  the  ice. 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  473 

vra 

He  was  lying  in  his  sleeping-bag,  alone  on  the  sled, 
deep  in  the  translucent  night  of  the  canyon.  Across 
dark,  polished  ice  flickered  liquidly  the  first  gleams  of 
a  camp-fire.  He  saw  blurs  stirring  there,  under  a  brow 
of  rock. 

"  The  trail  decides.  All's  over  now,"  he  tried  to 
enunciate,  appalled  at  his  resignation.  "  Works  it  out 
--right.  .  .  .  Right!" 

He  knew  that  his  lips  were  moving,  but  he  could  not 
hear  the  words  they  formed.  His  febrile  mind  raced 
on. 

He  fought  to  realise  the  nadir  of  his  despair,  to  re- 
grasp  the  sinking  entity  of  himself.  .  .  .  Was  he  not 
dying? 

The  Self!  What  else  existed?  Any  guiding  force, 
inherently  uplifting,  could  not  be  outside  him.  It  was 
within  —  his  soul  —  the  Great  Will  of  Existence  .  .  . 
doomed!  Nature  and  all  other  life  were  a  mockery, 
an  anarchy,  traitors  to  themselves.  Life  was  war. 
And  there  were  no  rules  of  conflict,  no  creeds  of  con- 
quest ;  no  meed  for  heroism,  suffering,  self-sacrifice  — 
neither  from  Man,  nor  Nature,  nor  the  Multitude. 
Alike,  all  their  brooding  ends  lay  in  barrenness.  Per- 
petuation was  a  hapless  taunt,  alluring,  flaunted,  tragic, 
unjust.  Obliteration  was  the  one  immortalness  — fail- 
ure the  ever-ineffable  bondage  of  the  spheres.  .  .  . 

Thus  the  last  die  seemed  cast.  There  swept  through 
him  forgotten  visions,  hot  with  gold,  love,  and  unending 
life  —  wraiths  of  faith  and  victory  by  charity  and 
vengeance.  Quenched,  every  spark!  All  his  valiant 
dreams,  the  strife,  and  wisdom,  the  ache  of  his  soul,  the 


474       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

glory  of  the  North,  of  this  predestinate  Youngest 
World!  .  .  . 

"  Clara ! "  he  cried  in  anguish.     "  Clara! " 

Beside  him,  he  had  caught  sight  of  her  ermine,  rolled 
into  a  gleaming  ball.  It  filled  him  with  shame  and  a 
self-abomination.  He  reviled  himself.  Had  he  for- 
gotten, in  his  delirium,  facing  the  Apocalypse,  her  — 
the  supernal  lodestar? 

A  warmth  penetrated  him  from  the  parka.  It 
stirred.  He  thought  that  he  heard  a  gentle  whining  in 
there.  The  little  whelps!  He  gathered  the  bundle 
into  his  embrace. 

Then  twin,  tawny  eyes  floated  above  him  —  Clara's 
—  deep  and  distant  as  the  remote  scarf  of  stars.  Her 
oval  features  were  livid,  tremulous.  She  was  raising 
his  body. 

"  Drink.  You've  lost  blood,"  her  voice  throbbed 
bravely.  "  Keep  the  stiff  lip,  Gail." 

He  heard,  without  understanding;  but  he  put  his 
mouth  to  the  cup  of  hot  flour  and  water  that  she  held 
to  it. 

"  Klika's  pups,"  he  articulated,  raving.  "  And  not 
dead  yet." 

She  appeared  to  laugh,  but  he  hardly  heard. 

"  I  suppose  they  must  die,  Gail,"  she  said  in  a  grave 
tone.  "  But  I  won't  —  we  shan't.  .  .  .  We've  won  — 
the  future.  .  .  ." 

He  neither  heard  nor  understood  her  note  of  triumph. 
Yet  she  saw  his  steady  breathing,  and  compressing  her 
twitching  bloodless  lips,  smilingly  went  on: 

"  I  got  Klika  and  myself  mixed.  That's  in  the  mad- 
ness keeps  a  woman  guessing  till  she's  sure.  And  I 
never  was  sure,  till  her  things  came  this  afternoon. 
That  broke  the  spell  of  my  delusions.  Klika  —  I  saw 


THE    BLUE    BITCH  475 

her  condition  long  ago,  like  a  kind  of  mirror  to  my 
craving,  a  bond  between  us.  I  had  the  hunch  that 
if  she  had  them,  I'd  make  good.  And  I  shall.  .  .  . 
But  I  hadn't  the  nerve  to  tell  you  till  I  was  certain. 
You'd  staked  your  soul  and  life  on  me,  bucking  this 
last  trail.  We'd  come  to  success  or  failure  —  you  and 
I  —  the  parting  of  the  ways.  Knowing  you,  Gail,  for  me 
to  have  built  your  hopes,  and  then  have  to  choke  them, 
might  have  finished  for  the  whole  outfit.  I  couldn't 
cheat  you  with  promises  if  they  weren't  true." 

She  stammered,  and  her  voice  kept  breaking.  But 
she  did  not  prick  his  lethargy  —  or  was  it  that  her 
revelation  overwhelmed  him?  He  only  stared  at  her 
with  glassy  pupils,  as  she  added,  in  a  blaze  of  her 
old,  resistless  fervour  — 

"  But  they  are  true,  Gail.  .  .  .  Klika  was  —  like  me 
now.  .  .  , 

"  I  tried  to  keep  my  secret,  but  Lena  read  it  in  me. 
You  should  have  seen  her  rise  to  the  divineness.  I  told 
her  I  had  the  crazy  notion  that  feeding  the  dog  would 
help  nourish  me.  So  she  stole  for  Klika,  risked  her  life. 
.  .  .  There's  a  woman !  " 

Gail  moved  convulsively,  like  a  waking  cataleptic. 
His  strength  was  returning,  but  he  did  not  yet  per- 
ceive her  unquenchable  fealty  to  creative  life,  her 
grim,  devious,  suppressed  tenacity  for  his  transcendent 
guerdon :  the  reality  of  that  ecstatic  vision  on  Chigmit 
beach,  of  those  primordial,  cosmic  functions  that  she 
was  destined  to  fulfil. 

But  he  grew  aware  of  other  figures  surrounding  them, 
of  Lena,  Bleven,  Pete,  all  their  faces  set  with  a  radiant, 
glorifying  reverence. 

"  Hel-lo  !  —  What?  "  he  moaned. 

The  world  still  lay  far  beneath  him,  inchoate,  abys- 


476       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

mal.  Yet,  slowly  regaining  it,  he  felt  a  lust  for  life  — 
Life  the  fecund  and  indestructible. 

His  arm  groped  forward,  seizing  Clara's  hand. 

"Can't  —  can't  you  understand  her?"  tremulously 
whispered  Perry,  the  once  craven  Eleven, 

"  Reckon  I'd  better  rense  his  scalp  again  ? "  said 
Dead-0,  gently. 

"  Oh  —  oh  —  I'm  all  right,"  Gail  averred,  distinctly. 

"  Gail,  I'm  going  to  dig  down,"  chuckled  Clara,  "  if 
death  doesn't  catch  us  before  he  comes.  Down  for 
moss  to  pack  him  in,  and  carry  him  on  my  back  —  all- 
same-Siwash." 

She  leaned  and  kissed  him  upon  his  high,  gaunt 
cheek-bones,  his  crinkling  lips.  He  beheld  Perry's  eyes 
wet  and  sparkling,  an  arm  drawn  about  Arlene,  who 
hid  her  head.  And  then  the  three  were  gazing  on  him 
with  that  brave  tenderness  which  had  been  his  on  the 
peak  with  Bob,  in  the  cave  with  Clara. 

At  last  the  verity,  slowly  permeating  his  lapsed  senses, 
had  pierced  him.  He  folded  Clara  to  his  body,  felt  her 
full  tissues  tighten,  maternally,  against  his  bosom. 

"  Just  God ! "  cried  Gail  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XX 
ARTHUR 


EACH  new  camp  was  in  sight  of  the  last  one.  They 
staggered  forward  in  an  atony  of  speech,  and  thought, 
and  will;  nervelessly  facing  dissolution  on  the  white 
rack  of  the  trail,  sustained  by  the  flickering,  deceitful 
yet  imperishable  instinct  of  self-preservation;  turn 
about  at  hauling  the  lightened  sled,  mechanically  pitch- 
ing, folding  their  shreds  of  canvas,  dividing  listlessly 
the  remaining  scraps  of  grub.  For  exhaustion  and  the 
annihilating  cold  had  dimmed  their  minds  toward  the 
turgid  drama  of  effacement,  which  loomed  remote,  as 
if  seen  through  a  concaved  lense  —  and  yet  no  more 
distant  than  Clara's  victorious  apocalypse. 

For  the  first  day  thereafter,  they  had  plugged  ahead, 
enleagued  by  the  divine  call  of  parenthood,  bound  in 
a  valorous  fraternity.  But  at  dark  the  tiny  whelps  had 
died.  Clara  stole  out  alone  in  the  night  and  buried 
their  mere  excrescent  tissue.  Morning  visited  a  fool's 
paradise ;  through  the  spectre  of  his  elation,  Gail  stared 
at  oblivion  beckoning  them  across  the  wastes.  Clara 
had  shriveled  with  sadness  at  the  poor  dogs'  drown- 
ing; but,  as  they  kept  their  aimless  course,  she  ever 
and  anon  broke  into  memories,  distorted  yet  trenchant, 
of  their  early  days  together  —  on  the  Seward,  at  Tor- 
lina.  Unaware  of  it  herself,  the  old  candour  and  rail- 
lery tempered  her  accents.  And  just  as  Eleven  now 
stuck  close  to  Lena,  so  Clara  seldom  left  Gail,  who,  still 

477 


478       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

weak  from  his  collapse  and  the  wound,  remained  dumb. 
Clara  replaced  him  in  the  tireless,  goading  initiative  of 
camp  work.  Pete  dragged  himself  on  desperately,  with 
senseless  limbs,  far  in  the  rear. 

Except  at  instants  of  an  illusive  and  uncanny  keen- 
ness, Gail  even  began  to  doubt  the  accuracy  of  his 
understanding  on  that  triumphant  night.  His  clarity 
of  mind  was  dulled,  even  in  the  raw  certainty  of  having 
won  his  personal  eternity  only  that  all  must  be  blotted 
out.  And  his  partners  were  less  acute.  Eleven  com- 
plained no  more  of  his  frozen  nose,  although  he  often 
voiced,  with  a  moan  of  self-pity,  some  delusion  of  see- 
ing snow-shoe  tracks,  which  yet  aroused  in  the  five  no 
sense  of  solidarity.  Dead-O  no  longer  hankered  for 
a  quid,  and  accepting  the  mastery  of  fate,  sealed  his  lips 
from  anticipating  evil.  Arlene  with  her  scurvy  left  half 
her  small  ration  uneaten,  forced  it  upon  Perry.  Gail 
had  once  seen  Clara  holding  the  white  parka  before  her, 
as  if  under  the  hallucination  that  she  still  was  carry- 
ing the  pups.  And  his  own  feverish  introspections 
evinced  no  fret  toward  creeds  of  living,  Nature,  or  the 
shroud-like  glamour  of  the  Youngest  World.  It  only 
clung  perversely  in  his  mind  that  his  damning  defect, 
ushering  him  to  death,  was  that  he  had  never  hated  any 
man;  that  however  militant  or  superhuman  had  been 
his  strivings,  they  held  no  rancour,  scorn,  or  destruc- 
tiveness  toward  the  unfit  and  the  weak. 

Already  the  Self  was  lifeless. 

Thus  Gail  lived  a  waking  dream,  unreal  and  yet  not 
incoherent.  Iti  engrossed  him,  painlessly.  Believing 
that  the  dead  man  must  be  dead  eternally,  he  was  in- 
different to  the  details  of  its  ending.  His  love  of  life 
was  summed,  his  supineness  stirred,  by  no  more  than  a 
vacant  dread  of  that  inevitable  moment  —  as  a  Change. 


ARTHUR  479 

In  them  all,  vitality  had  sunk  below  the  line  of  cour- 
age for  theft  or  violence.  They  had  passed  the  crest 
of  hunger:  three  days  of  that  gnawing  torture  beyond 
words,  which  the  fourth  obliterates.  You  forget  and 
do  not  care.  You  are  the  sleepy,  flat-bellied  incubus 
himself — Starvation.  .  .  .  They  had  left:  no  tea, 
about  six  pounds  alike  of  flour  and  dog-rice.  Each 
morning  they  drank  a  gruel  of  the  first,  with  thong- 
ends,  whang-leathers,  strands  of  gut  from  their  torn 
shoes;  at  night  boiled  a  cup  of  rice  in  the  bean-pot, 
with  old  bacon  rinds.  Their  parkas  were  in  rags,  un- 
dergarments disintegrating;  the  fur  of  caps  scorched 
from  leaning  over  fires ;  and  the  gunny-sacking  which 
swathed  their  outworn  moccasins  trailed  fringes  that 
tripped  them.  Every  face,  sunken  and  mummy-thin,  was 
at  once  a  leprous  white  and  a  hectic  garnet  hue,  in  the 
decay  from  frostbite,  and  scaled  over  by  smoke  and  the 
dark  scurf  of  snow-burn.  The  sockets,  mercifully  swol- 
len around  their  dim  yet  lambent  eyes,  made  them  un- 
recognisable by  feature  to  one  another.  The  women 
could  hardly  speak  through  their  puffed  lips  —  Lena's 
raw  from  her  cankered  gums.  Olive  lines  spread  from 
Eleven's  nose  across  his  cheeks.  Matter  from  the  heal- 
ing wound  on  Gail's  forehead  smarted  in  his  eyes. 

They  did  not  know  where  they  were,  nor  the  direction 
of  their  heading.  They  had  emerged  from  the  canyon 
into  some  high  place  of  shapeless  twisted  hills,  abrupt 
scarps;  a  chameleon  land,  incessantly  disturbed  by 
mirage  and  a  leaden  fog;  a  region  of  persistent  night, 
with  moments  of  unending  dawns,  interminable  sunsets. 
They  breathed  the  thin  air  of  the  moon  beneath  a  sky 
of  pallid  brass  which  always  had  just  ceased  resounding 
in  Gail's  ears;  in  light  that  was  chased  and  crinkled 
upon  the  vagrant  ridges  as  a  sheeting  of  vermilion  foil, 


480       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

till  suddenly,  on  the  low  crotch  of  a  summit,  a  gleam 
like  a  live  coal  burst  into  a  flaming  torch  —  the  sun ! 


It  was  probably  near  Christmas.  Neither  canyon 
nor  river  were  in  sight.  Gail  had  an  impression  that 
he  had  argued  with  Eleven  over  back-trailing ;  of  having 
come  out  upon  the  Tsana  from  some  giddy  height, 
which  Clara  had  shrunk  from  descending.  Eleven  had 
been  on  his  knees.  Gail  wondered  whether  he  had 
struck  him  there;  then  remembered  that  the  man  often 
crawled  so,  sometimes  breaking  trail,  but  always  mum- 
bling that  he  was  finding  human  traces. 

He  had  been  doing  that  all  today.  Gail  was  pulling 
a  fragment  of  the  sled,  and  for  hours  a  rhyme  had  spun 
through  his  head,  articulated  by  dazed  voices : 

Let  me  feel  maggots  crawling  through  the  sod, 
Or  else  — Let  me  be  God  I 

Once  Clara  had  echoed  Perry  with  a  mumble  that  she 
smelt  wood-smoke.  It  was  noon;  but  the  sun,  a  globe 
of  smothered  orange,  had  not  burned  through  the  haze 
which  yearned  up  the  slopes  in  veils  of  a  filmy  turquoise. 

All  at  once  Arlene,  who  had  refused  to  eat  on  break- 
ing camp,  collapsed  forward  a  second  time. 

"  I'm  —  played  out,  too,"  groaned  Eleven,  tottering 
beside  her.  "  And  thirsty,  parched  .  .  .  this  fever 
from  my  nose  .  .  .  petrified,  not  a  jelly  now — eh, 
Gail?  .  .  .  Let's  lay  over  tomorrow,  unless  we  see  more 
tracks.  Cook  up  all  our  grub  for  a  square  feed. 
Hadn't  you  sooner  end  it  in  the  tent  —  on  a  full  stom- 
ach .  .  .  what  say?  " 

Unwavering,  monotonously  —  without  reverence,  or 
fear,  or  bravery  —  he  welcomed  the  good  fellow,  Death. 


ARTHUR  481 

.  .  .  Friend,  too,  of  Gail's  whirling  brain.  .  .  .  Pete 
staggered  up,  in  time  to  grin  sheepishly  at  his  meek 
assent. 

"  No  grub-b,"  broke  in  Lena,  in  a  half  gag,  half 
laugh.  "Eat  —  in  this  scurvy?  I  c-can't  swallow," 
she  ended  in  a  bitter,  dry  cacophany. 

At  a  distance,  Clara  was  leaning  on  Eleven's  rifle, 
as  she  gazed  searchingly  about.  Gail  hallooed  to  her 
to  return  to  the  sled  and  help  make  camp.  But, 
whether  she  had  heard  Eleven's  surrender,  or  the  ob- 
servation was  involuntary,  she  called  as  she  ap- 
proached — 

"  Any  wood's  too  far." 

"  Ain't  that  unkind?  "  whined  Perry.  "  But  what's 
to  hinder  us  chopping  up  the  sled.  Won't  need  her  any 
more.  Burn  the  tent,  too." 

Pete  gaped  in  protest,  but  only  opened  his  mouth 
soundlessly,  like  a  suffocating  fish. 

Gail  and  Clara  unrolled  the  tattered  canvas,  propped 
it  on  their  snow-shoes,  inserted  the  tent-pole  a-slant  be- 
neath. The  others  spread  their  sleeping-bags,  and  in- 
stantly crawled  into  them,  without  touching  the  stove 
and  sled,  which  they  had  left  outside. 

Gail  ducked  under  the  flap  to  get  them.  As  he  re- 
turned, with  the  axe  also,  a  faint  stuttering  from  Pete 
and  Arlene  showed  them  already  asleep.  But  the  sight 
that  riveted  him  was  Clara. 

Grasped  in  both  her  hands  was  the  big  spoon  from 
the  empty  bean-pot.  She  had  torn  up  the  rotten  tar- 
paulin, and  was  digging  down  wildly,  avidly  heaving 
her  shoulders,  muttering,  through  the  floor  of  snow. 

"  Crazy  —  the  squirrels  at  her,  too,"  croaked  Eleven, 
breaking  into  a  withered  chuckle,  which  Gail  found 
himself  impotently  joining. 


482       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

"  Moss,  moss,"  whispered  the  breathless  woman. 
"  To  stow  and  carry  your  little  shaver  in.  .  .  ." 

The  twilight  seethed  black  before  Gail's  eyes.  He 
tried  to  formulate  the  ghostly  self-accusation  of  how 
far  more  ruthless  and  persistent  was  the  furtive,  humble 
instinct  of  creation  in  woman,  than  its  once-heightened 
counterpart  in  him,  a  man.  But  his  mad  groping  only 
melted  into  the  resigned  syllables: 

"  Let's  sleep  —  like  the  others.  .  .  .  Fire  in  the 
morning." 

And  next  he  and  Clara,  side  by  side,  were  shoulder- 
ing down  into  their  sheep-skin  bags. 

The  cloth  walls  loomed  out  phosphorescent  in  the 
moonless  night.  They  tinged  with  silver,  into  a  fret- 
ted web;  edges  of  the  rents  burned  in  gold  —  at  last 
a  pallor.  No  one  arose  or  spoke.  Eleven  tossed, 
crackling  with  the  fever  of  his  blood-poisoning.  Oc- 
casionally a  groan  broke  Arlene's  muteness.  Once  Pete 
had  sobbed.  .  .  .  Anon  it  was  night  again.  Anon  the 
tent  was  a  house  iridescent. 

Clara  had  swung  bolt  upright. 

"  It  was  only  the  rest  we  needed,"  she  sighed  drearily. 
"Didn't  I  see  birches  in  a  draw  beyond  here?  ...  A 
woman  may  think  she  wants  to  die,  but  life  —  the  life  in 
her  —  is  too  strong." 

She  withdrew  from  her  bag,  picked  up  the  axe.  Gail 
followed  her,  silent,  in  a  vague  access  of  awe  at  her  un- 
quenchable ache  to  survive.  Motherhood,  by  its  very 
genius,  could  not  concede  succumbing.  The  divinity 
of  sex!  .  .  .  Hardly  an  atom  of  frost  burred  over  the 
three  remaining  bags,  usually  so  white  and  crusted. 
But  outside,  in  the  fusing  blare  of  noon,  the  day  was 
warmer. 

Then  Clara  and  Gail  were  alternately  hurling  the  axe 


ARTHUR  483 

into  a  great  spreading,  gnarled  and  disintegrating 
birch-tree,  from  whose  trunk  drooped  immense  scrolls 
of  palish  bark.  They  were  soon  packing  punky  arm- 
fuls  of  wood  toward  camp,  Clara  in  the  lead.  Gail's 
eyes,  roving  northward,  of  a  sudden  descried  far  across 
the  shimmering  plain  a  scarlet  speck.  It  lurched  to 
and  fro,  close  to  the  snow.  His  anger  was  pricked,  to 
be  thus  deluded  at  the  threshold  of  dissolution.  With 
a  feeble  oath,  Gail  drew  an  arm  across  his  eyes  to  shut 
out  the  object,  and  so  dropped  the  wood.  Unhearing, 
Clara  trudged  on  with  her  burden  for  the  tent. 

He  stared  at  the  sticks  scattered  on  the  snow  —  snow 
that  was  cut  in  a  wide  groove,  vanishing  to  right  and 
left  straight  across  his  track,  filled  with  the  oval,  grilled 
impress  of  webbed  shoes.  He  dropped  prone  upon 
them.  He  had  crossed  here,  blind!  A  well-worn  trail. 
Prophetic  had  been  Perry's  aberration!  Yet  what  did 
it  avail,  without  human  beings,  now  that  they  could  only 
wait  for  death? 

A  delicate,  muffled  tinkling  echoed  in  Gail's  ears, 
helplessly  set  his  heart  a-thundering.  He  scrambled 
to  his  feet.  The  scarlet  speck  was  close  to  —  real,  alive 
—  but  it  had  not  grown  into  a  man.  Beyond  it  ap- 
peared a  grey,  waddling  mass,  a  foreshortened  string 
of  dogs  hitched  to  a  sled,  tails  waving  to  and  fro  as 
they  swung  toward  him.  From  over  by  his  tent  came 
a  sound  of  chopping,  and  he  beheld  a  coil  of  smoke. 

But  it  was  the  little  figure,  standing  alone  before  him, 
who  was  ordering  the  dogs  to  halt.  That  voice,  so 
peremptory  yet  childish  —  where  had  he  heard  it? 
The  creaking  of  runners  in  the  friable  snow  ceased. 
The  chilled  blood  boiled  out  into  his  vitals,  for  sight 
had  returned  to  Gail's  eyes.  The  boy  there,  clad  in 
bfdticking  with  a  fox  hood,  looked  up  at  him  from 


484        THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

clear,  quizzical  eyes,  over  the  flap  of  fur  across  his 
snub  nose. 

It  was  Sydney's  Arthur. 

"  Thain  —  you ! "  .  .  .  Gail  was  pressing  a  small, 
fragile  and  ruddy  face  against  his  bosom,  as  it  queried, 
"  Ain't  you  got  no  malemutes  ?  Father's  hiking  right 
behind." 

He  saw  two  other  figures,  of  a  man  and  a  woman, 
heard  them  call  with  a  fearsome  wonder,  running  toward 
the  boy.  But  Gail  only  found  himself  enunciating, 
"  Caribou  meat.  I  smell  it  on  your  face,  son." 

"  Sure.  We  shot  two  yesterday,"  piped  the  child, 
manfully.  "  More'n  we  could  freight.  Catched  them 
on  our  crick  back  o'  the  big  camp." 

Then  the  man  was  facing  Gail. 

"By  the  jawbone  of  Samson!"  exclaimed  the  fel- 
low. 

A  chord  far  back  in  Gail's  memory  began  to  vibrate. 
He  knew  that  rough,  kindly  voice. 

"  Something  — '  Out  of  the  strong,'"  Gail's  lips 
moved.  "  I'm  soft,  I  guess.  But  neither  that  nor  the 
hardness  has  killed  me  yet."  Again  his  eyes  danced, 
sightless. 

"  No,  partner,"  said  the  familiar  stranger  with  a 
quick  solemnity.  "  I  was  all  wrong  that  winter,  about 
you  and  myself,  over  women  in  particular.  It  was 
one  7  needed,  and  have  got." 

At  first  unmindful  of  the  woman  standing  rigid  there, 
Gail  now  caught  upon  his  swimming  vision,  as  a  moist 
tide  flooded  it,  the  fellow's  milk-white  teeth,  his  sharp 
amber  irises. 

"  You've  not  saved  me  again,"  broke  out  Gail,  vacu- 
ously. "  No,  no ! "  The  lash  of  indebtedness,  always 
so  abhorrent  to  him,  flicked  his  anger  and  apathy;  the 


ARTHUR  485 

smouldering  self  flamed,  prodding  all  his  senses.     w  Man 
can't  give,  or  take  away,  the  right  to  life." 

A  hearty  laughter  checked  Gail.  Yet  instantly  he 
rasped  — 

"  Dick !  "  His  stare  consumed  the  gay  youth's  green 
plaid  mackinaw,  his  round  wool  cap  with  a  knob  on  top. 
"Dick  Trueblood!" 

"  Gail,  you  look  as  though  you'd  crawled  out  of  a 
coffin,"  he  cheered..  "  Any  Siwash  seeing  you,  *ud 
stampede  or  shoot  you  for  a  shaman's  devil." 

"  Ought  to  see  the  others,"  averred  Gail,  blankly. 
"  We'd  laid  down  to  die.  Said  so  —  flat." 

Ever  the  remote  excruciation  is  that  in  the  shadow  of 
extinction  nothing  matters.  But  Dick  winced. 

Faint  —  Gail's  joy  was  but  a  phantom;  so  sapped, 
even  the  elemental  faculties  of  manhood,  that  he  could 
not  yet  respond  to  the  splendour  of  deliverance.  Only, 
Life  was  a  flux,  a  mighty  rhythm.  Naught  was  fixed. 
Existence  was  but  the  mutability  of  atoms.  .  .  . 

"  Others  ?  "     —  Dick's  old,  imperative  tone. 

"Look  by  that  fire,"  pointed  Gail.  "Mine  there, 
like  your  woman  here.  The  same  fate  for  us  in  this 
country,  I  guess." 

"  Our  land,  won  through  them."  Dick  coloured,  but 
with  a  shy  chuckle.  "  And  she's  weakened  me  jest 
enough  with  her  shears.  Eh,  Mrs.  Delilah  Trueblood  ?  " 

At  last  Gail  followed  Dick's  glance  toward  the  silent, 
dumbfounded  woman.  Her  head  had  drooped  into  her 
hands,  and  she  was  gently  quivering.  But  now  Gail 
could  see  clearly  —  the  grey  squirrel  pelts  he  remem- 
bered made  into  a  parka,  the  white  toque.  And  soon 
she  resolutely  raised  her  face :  the  abrupt  bang  over  the 
round,  appealing  countenance,  no  longer  shrewd  or 
doll-like,  but  transfigured,  strongly  tender.  Those 


486       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

blue  eyes,  their  flintiness  forever  dissolved,  filled  as  she 
turned  away,  a  hand  at  the  lump  in  her  throat. 

"  Gail  seen  me  at  my  best  and  worst,"  she  cried.  "  I 
never  told  you,  Dick.  It  was  him,  more  than  Borden's 
marrying  on  the  outside,  saved  me."  She  stopped  with 
a  choke.  "  Gail  and  Arthur  one  night,  .  .  ." 

Gail  flushed,  with  thoughts  of  Chickaman,  of  the 
bath-house,  "  Javver  "  and  the  yellow  shades,  the  horse- 
whip; of  his  temptation,  compassion,  and  disdain. 
Was  it  more  to  create  than  save? 

"  Oh,  the  kid  told  me,  Sydney,"  muttered  Dick,  star- 
ing straight  before  him,  striving  to  be  harsh  and  care- 
less. "  And  I  says  to  him,"  he  turned  to  Arthur, 
who  was  picking  up  the  wood,  chucking  it  on  the  sled, 
"  '  Huh,  your  mother's  an  undiscovered  country  for  me, 
like  the  Tsana,  the  only  one  left  for  a  man  raised  up 
here,  and  as  a  rustler,  the  spittin'  ringer  for  her  son.' 
That  was  two  months  back  on  the  trail."  He  faced 
Gail.  "  Arthur  put  me  onto  this  notion  for  the  heart- 
stuff,  though  he  ain't  mine.  And  once  you  bluffed  me 
in  that.  Only  show  us  a  sky-pilot !  " 

"  It  was  Dick's  charity,"  uttered  Sydney.  "  Or  I'd 
'a'  been  dead." 

Gail  blazed  inwardly,  with  some  vast,  gratified,  inor- 
dinate ecstasy,  welling  toward  Dick  Trueblood,  as  a 
counterpart  of  himself. 

m 

Again  the  dogs  ceased  swinging  their  fluffy  tails. 
They  were  at  the  wrecked  tent.  Outside  it,  Clara's  fire 
had  sunk  into  the  snow.  She  was  lifting  the  big  kettle, 
steaming  with  the  last  duff  of  rice,  bacon  rind,  and  the 
raw-hide  of  moccasins.  The  four  caught  sight  of  Gail 
and  the  newcomers,  listlessly  fixed  on  them  for  a  mo- 


ARTHUR  487 

merit  glazed  and  dizzy  eyes;  then,  squatting  about  the 
food,  began  to  eat,  slowly,  tremulously,  oblivious  of  the 
drawn  and  aghast  stares  fixed  upon  their  skeleton, 
abominable  features.  Gail  ate  also. 

They  blew  upon  each  mouthful.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken.  The  dogs  began  to  whimper,  above  the  sput- 
ter of  the  sticks.  Sydney  gasped  and  averted  her 
humid  eyes.  Dick  stiffened,  pale  and  open-mouthed ; 
Arthur's  tender  lips  twitched,  as  if  he  were  braving 
pain. 

"  Eat  —  for  our  three  lives,  Gail,"  murmured  Clara, 
suddenly  becoming  ravenous.  But  Lena,  who  had 
dragged  herself  bag  and  all  from  the  tent,  a  muffled 
bulk,  inertly  dropped  her  spoon.  Sydney  picked  it 
up,  trying  to  feed  her. 

"  That's  no  use,  with  her  scurvy,"  said  Trueblood. 
"  But  we  can  get  them  all  back  to  the  big  camp  to- 
night, and  potatoes." 

The  words  seemed,  at  first  mockingly,  to  pierce  their 
lethargy.  An  empty  grin  creased  the  powder  pits  of 
Pete's  cheeks.  Then  following  Clara,  he  with  Eleven 
and  Gail  began  wolfing  the  cooked  mess,  attacked  it 
with  bare  fingers.  Once  Perry  paused,  drew  the  back 
of  a  hand  across  his  blank  and  monstrous  lineaments, 
now  alight  with  the  dazzling,  yet  animal,  transport  of 
truth;  and  he  found  speech: 

"Potatoes?  You'll  josh  once  too  often.  How  far 
is  camp  ?  " 

"  Right  across  the  river,"  answered  Dick.  "  You're 
at  the  upper  canyon.  And  Gail,  your  discovery  stakes 
I  found  ain't  been  jumped  yet.  The  first  chechakos 
expected  there  —  they'll  be  corpses." 

Dead-0  gave  a  soundless  guffaw;  but  the  news  ap- 
peared, aggressively,  to  loose  Eleven's  kindling  mind. 


488       THE    YOUNGEST    WORLD 

"  Who's  the  woman  ?  "  he  pointed  to  Sydney,  who  had 
risen  from  Arlene. 

"A  female  Jason,  that's  led  me  into  gold,"  an- 
swered Trueblood,  inscrutably  as  ever,  tongue-in-cheek. 
"Not  fleeced  me  yet,  either." 

"  Hey  ?  "  Perry  gaped,  throatily ;  and  with  a  wild 
glance  at  Gail,  flung  out  his  arms  toward  Lena.  The 
vein  down  the  middle  of  his  forehead,  which  had  been 
protruding  like  a  charred  root,  began  to  crimson  and 
pulsate. 

"  Hear  him,  Gail,"  burst  out  Clara.  "  I  can't  speak. 
Lena's  confessed,  about  your  desertion  of  her,  what  she's 
done." 

"  The  night-mare's  over  —  emptiness  filled,"  Eleven 
wandered  again,  fiercely,  in  the  stress  of  so  unwonted 
emotion.  And  he,  who  a  day  back  had  wept  in  self- 
pity,  went  on,  "  And  it  wasn't  no  martyrdom.  The 
trail  did  it,  and  you,  Gail  Thain." 

Solemnly  Gail  bowed  his  head ;  for  he  knew. 

"  The  prodigal's  struck  pay-streak,  hey  ?  "  divined 
Dick. 

"She's  mine  —  mine!"  cried  Perry.  "Lena's 
free  from  him,  divorced  from  Thain." 

Dazed  and  trembling,  Arlene  looked  from  one  to  an- 
other; then  slowly  staggered  to  her  feet.  Standing 
there,  immutable,  her  moist,  bird-like  eyes  concentrated 
upon  Gail. 

"  And  it  was  a  fight,"  she  uttered  starkly,  "  for  a 
woman  like  me  ...  against  the  both  of  you  ...  to 
admit  it." 

Sydney  with  a  troubled  gasp  shielded  the  puzzled 
Arthur. 

"  Arlene ! "  cried  Gail,  overcome  by  her  direct,  com- 


ARTHUR  489 

pelling  words.  She  —  the  first  spur  to  all  his  ad- 
venturous, aspiring  pilgrimage,  partner  then,  and  in 
his  late  despair! 

Clara  leveled  them  a  look  of  gladness,  as  for  some 
great  atonement.  Dick  with  Pete,  also  enlivened  by  the 
finished  duff,  was  loading  their  bedding  on  the  dog- 
sled. 

"  Looks  to  me  like  the  old  man  had  better  ride,"  said 
Trueblood  to  Gail,  marking  Dead-0's  limps.  "  The 
blonde,  too." 

"  I  think  mebbe  the  right  foot'll  have  to  come  off," 
said  Pete,  hearing  them.  "  But  that  won't  bother  me, 
as  a  millionaire  with  autymobiles.  An'  Perry  —  ye 
had  better  learn  to  chew.  I'd  call  a  celluloid  nose  dan- 
gerous to  such  a  smoker." 

"Look  a-here,  Thain,"  said  Trueblood.  "I  got 
news  for  you,  about  that  Charles  Lamar  you  killed. 
You  recollect  the  operator  Gash,  I  had  on  my  sled  with 
rheumatism?  Saw  him  in  Chickaman  the  day  I  pulled 
out.  He  had  a  stake  in  Lamar's  outfit,  and  was  hornet- 
mad  over  a  wireless  in  his  fist  that  gave  your  townsite  to 
Hartline." 

"John!"  exclaimed  Clara.     "Glory!" 

IV 

Dick  and  Sydney  drove  the  sled,  back-trailing  to  the 
rush  camp  above  Gail's  Gulch,  as  Arthur  explained  to 
Eleven  how  his  foster-father  had  started  on  the  main 
trail  to  Cook  Inlet  that  morning,  on  a  sudden  errand 
which  had  terribly  gladdened  and  distracted  Sydney. 

"  He  was  hitting  for  the  coast  to  get  a  parson  to 
hitch  them,"  said  the  boy. 

and  Clara  walked  behind,  through  a  gorgeous, 


490       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

sparkling,  rainbow  world.  Forward  —  away  from  this 
last  and  crucial  struggle,  won  within  its  hideous 
shadows,  into  Life,  forever  at  the  beginning! 

"  In  the  name  of  our  own  blood,"  she  uttered  softly. 
"  Of  Love,  the  Future,  and  Victory.  .  .  ." 

But  her  words  were  strong  and  cheerful,  clear  and 
indomitable  in  their  old  vibrance.  Her  conquering  cer- 
tainty was  like  strong  spirit  in  Gail's  veins,  to  his  now 
lucid  mind.  But  ah,  how  feeble  before  her  will  had 
been  his  great  thirst!  She,  again  the  all-enduring 
Clara  of  ordeals  and  dreams,  the  beloved,  eternal 
mother,  ever  battling  for  the  perpetuity  of  his  Young- 
est World. 

His  lost  fire  and  pride  of  being  awoke  and  raged. 
His  thoughts  whirled  on,  transfigured,  final  toward  Ex- 
istence ;  in  a  reckless  tide  of  power,  a  surge  of  mastery. 
Now  for  the  first  time,  through  the  clear  glass  of  Clara's 
maternity  in  triumph,  he  grasped  the  splendid,  fevered 
verities  of  her  apocalypse ;  and  his  soul  shrank,  humbled. 
Not  vain  had  been  the  ache  of  all  his  long,  valiant  yearn- 
ing. Real,  real,  attained,  was  the  supreme  goal  in 
flesh  and  blood. 

So  intoxicated,  Gail  felt  the  fate  of  his  barren,  brood- 
ing realm  stir  within  his  loins ;  beheld  himself,  creative, 
dynamic;  with  Dick  Trueblood,  and  the  hosts  of  John 
Hartline's  aspirations,  in  a  dire  conflict  against  Lamar 
and  his  despoiling  masters,  the  covetous  unfit  of  Seattle 
and  Hocherda.  They  opposed  Nature;  that  was  the 
war;  theirs,  not  Her's,  was  the  anarchy.  Her's  was 
the  Great  Will  of  Existence  —  beyond  the  Self  —  to 
populate,  to  obliterate  the  corrupting  and  the  sterile. 
The  righteous  and  strong  must  win,  and  they  were  such 
who  did.  He  saw  the  North  teeming  with  cities,  men 
and  children  sprung  from  its  chosen  youth;  a  white, 


ARTHUR  491 

multiplying  manhood  dominating  the  earth  by  the 
treasure  locked  beneath  these,  magical,  vast  spaces. 
And  he  was  a  prophet,  avatar  in  so  epic  a  dream  of  em- 
pire, the  pioneer-demon  of  this  Youngest  World. 

Thus  furtively  within  him  was  re-born  the  Self.  Was 
it  altogether  vanity?  Was  to  strive  for  the  Self  al- 
ways to  malign  Existence  and  the  Multitude  as  but  the 
contesting  wind  and  the  shorn  lambs?  Did  the  Self 
give  to  the  steeling  rigour  of  life,  to  the  apparent, 
cancelling  haplessness  of  Nature  —  the  guise  of 
treachery?  Not  wholly.  For  this  Great  Will  was  a 
might  as  lone  and  single  as  the  Self;  beyond  it  and 
Nature,  decreeing  pity  and  cruelty.  Never  had  his 
Self  said,  "Evil  be  thou  my  Good."  Whom  had  his 
hardness  ever  doomed,  whose  end  was  not  already  sealed? 
Cruelty  was  only  the  spur  to  justice;  pity  was  the 
soul's  trumpet  call  to  courage. 

In  this  consummate  awe  of  victory,  there  haunted 
Gail  this  Power  which  lies  behind  Mankind  and  Nature, 
behind  Fate  and  Being,  beyond  the  predatory  Self; 
whose  creed  for  survival  is  ruthlessness  and  charity ; 
which  tempers  with  Love  —  alike  of  man,  of  earth,  of 
woman  —  the  strife  of  endless  birth,  into  the  music  of 
the  spheres.  ...  It  was  not  Bob  Snowden's  message, 
but  His  who  cast  the  money  changers  from  the  temple, 
yet  said,  "  Love  thine  enemies." 

It  was  God.     Immortality  His  guerdon.  .  .  . 

Strength  filled  them.  It  was  as  though  neither  had 
ever  starved  and  suffered.  Mists  blew  from  some  high 
region  in  the  West.  Sunlight  fell  upon  this  swirling 
mesh  of  vapour,  and  they  walked  beside  their  shadows. 
They  emerged  upon  a  plateau  of  buck-brush,  whose  del- 
icate branches,  freighted  with  glittering  spines,  spread 


492       THE    YOUNGEST   WORLD 

a  miniature  forest  of  frost  that  crumbled  at  a  touch. 
They  flushed  up  a  white  owl.  Height  after  height 
shouldered  and  curved  around  them,  dawned  and  dis- 
solved. 

"  You  and  I,  Gail.  .  .  .  Staying  by  our  dreams  — " 
she  panted,  passionately,  with  flashing,  tawny  eyes. 
"  Ours  —  gold  and  the  Youngest  World.  Gail,  you 
and  I." 

For  hours  as  they  threaded  these  coral  jungles,  their 
shadows  appeared  to  detach  from  the  moving  mists,  to 
sweep  behind  its  veils,  then  out  and  across  the  bleak 
and  vacant  deserts  of  Alaska.  They  trooped  on  — 
a  phantom  procession,  an  army  of  ghosts.  And  among 
these  spirits,  Gail  imagined  that  he  discerned  Jonesy, 
Ireson,  Blackwood,  Tom  Guiteau  and  old  Mease,  Clif- 
ford of  the  foxes,  Father  Morice,  Len  Borden,  all  draw- 
ing into  the  glow  of  the  North's  perpetual  majesty. 
Yet  one  tall  and  dominating  figure  in  worn  corduroys, 
azure-eyed,  large-browed,  ever  led  them,  and  at  times 
Bob  Snowden  merged  into  the  outline  of  Clara  herself. 

Gail  felt  as  one  who  had  been  drowning,  but  now 
could  breast  the  surface  of  an  undiscovered  sea.  And 
doing  so,  he  trod  solid  earth  that  bridged  the  void  of 
that  illimitable  and  smiling  waste.  Once  more  he  was 
on  the  strawberry  fields ;  but  neither  where  their  spoke- 
like  parallels  ground  him  forward  to  a  first  poignant 
sorrow;  nor  in  the  swooning  zenith  above  the  shadowy 
tentacles  of  glaciers:  but  as  a  wanderer,  marching 
eternally  upon  the  common  trail  of  Life. 


THE  ENP 


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